B    3    bfi?    SM7 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 
SANTA    CRUZ 


Devices  and 
Desires 


DEVICES  AND  DESIRES 


BY 
FRANCIS  CHARLES  MAC  DONALD 


PRINCETON 
PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON :  HUMPHREY  MILFOBD 
OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

1922 


Copyright,  1922 
Francis  Charles  MacDonald 

Published,  1922 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 

Henry  Welty  Coulter 

this  after  many  years. 


PS 
3525 


Pf 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Solillo    13 

I 

Optima  Memoriae    14 

Reminiscence   17 

Mist 18 

Reprieve    19 

Notice 20 

I.  M i 22 

In  the  Graveyard,  Princeton 24 

Paganism 25 

The  Sweet-Meat  Vender 26 

The  Native  Christian,  to  his  Forsaken  God ...  29 

A  Garden  Song  for  the  North  Country 30 

Nocturne  31 

Branch  of  Palm 32 

Mango  Song 33 

Among  the  Ruins 34 

"There's  Rosemary"   37 

On  the  Caribbean,  before  Kingston 40 

Dawn    44 

Weather  45 

Island  Magic   46 

The  Sorrowful  Dead 47 


PAGE 

Royalty   50 

Easter  at  Sano '. 52 

April  Afternoon 53 

Memorials 54 

Another  Note  of  Spring 55 

Reinanzaka :  the  Hill  of  Whispers 56 

On  the  Fly-leaf  of  a  Manual  of  Arms 57 

The  Wise  Crow 58 

The  Spring  Drive   59 

Ginza  in  War-Time 60 

Scenario   : 63 

Vladivostok  Harbour 68 

The  End  of  a  British  Seaman 69 

To  Sylvia,  from  Omsk 70 

II 

Of  the  Ambulance 75 

France 76 

Russia 77 

Italy    78 

America    79 

She  Sees  the  Departure  of  the  Ships 80 

"Dulce  et  Decorum" 81 

The  Difference 83 

1917 — 1920    84 

On  a  Certain  American  Soldier .t  88 

Armistice    .                9° 


PAGE 
III 

The  Joke   91 

An  old  Song  of  Spring 93 

Inconstancy    95 

Bob  White 96 

To  an  Alchemist   97 

The  Old  Sail-boat 98 

On  an  Uncertain  Day  in  Winter 99 

The  Ecstatic  Lover 100 

The  Cynical  Lover loi 

The  Happy  Bachelor 102 

Song  for  Gay  Music 104 

In  August 105 

Inhibition   106 

In  the  Lanes 107 

"Out  of  what  Earth  and  Air" 108 

The  Quarry  no 

Finality    in 

Advice 113 

The  Visitor 114 

The  Eternal  Hope 115 

IV 

The  Daughter  of  Herodias 119 

Black  Dog  Care 122 

The  Merry  Life 123 

Elemental    125 


The  Nightmare    , 126 

Spring  Song 128 

V 

Nox  Irae 13° 

Mood  after  Music 134 


TO 


Devices  and 
Desires 


Solillo 

(for  Schuyler  Jackson) 

Solillo  is  not  built  of  towers : 

Narrow  the  dwellings  here,  and  low ; 

And  slowly,  slowly  come  the  hours 
To  meet  us,  homing  as  we  go 
Along  the  streets  of  flowers. 

Solillo  knows  a  sky  more  fair 

Than  folds  across  the  breast  of  earth : 
At  night  the  generous  stars  prepare 

The  whole  of  all  their  golden  worth 
To  pour  upon  the  air. 

And  when  the  stars  are  lost  in  light, 
And  moons  have  melted  into  noon, 

Solillo  still  and  cool  and  white, 
Turns  to  the  shadow  of  the  Moon 
That  haunts  the  gates  of  night. 

Whatever  season  comes  to  pass, 
Beauty  is  born  each  hour  anew : 

The  lights  that  glow  upon  the  grass 

Summer  nor  winter  can  subdue : 

Seasons  and  souls  are  true: 

Season  and  soul  together  stand: 
Poet  and  hero  reign;  and  we, 

Looking  beyond  what  we  have  planned, 
Descry  in  dim  futurity 

Our  undiscovered  land.  .  .  . 

13 


I 

Optima  Memoriae 

Now  if  I  could  unlock  the  past 
And  all  the  tokens,  duly  set 
With  every  circumstance,  forget, — 
The  rubbish  memory  has  amassed, — 
These  for  her  pride,  these  for  regret, 
These  for  her  desperate  penitence, — 
Yet  save  in  charity  three  things 
Of  good  report,  to  be  at  last 
My  soul's  immortal  evidence: 

What  dreams  I'd  brush  aside  and  cast 
Away  what  wild  imaginings! 
Pleasure  that  stood  me  in  ill  stead ; 
Love  that  prevailed  not;  hope  that  led 
To  no  fulfilment;  projects  vast 
That  neither  peace  nor  profit  brought ; 
Vain  purpose,  and  the  vexing  thought 
Of  heaven  and  hell,  and  all  the  fears 
That  haunted  me, — how  many  years! 
Of  God  hid  in  the  shadow  there 
To  catch  me  sinning,  unaware.  .  .  . 


However  deep  the  shadows  lay 

Against  my  search,  I'd  know  the  way; 

For  childhood,  leading  like  a  star, 

Would  guess  the  rapture  from  afar: 

The  smile  I  saw  upon  my  mother's  face, 

(So  long  ago,  I  have  forgotten  how 

She  looked  then,  and  I  would  remember  now!) 

That  said,  "No  matter  what  you  do,  however  base 

You  may  be,  or  however  high  you  climb, — 

Love  if  honour  be  yours,  love  if  disgrace, — 

My  love  shall  follow  you!"    Ah,  now,  from  Time, 

If  in  God's  providence  such  favours  be, 

I'd  beg  that  guerdon  for  eternity ! 

Once  was  an  hour  ...  so  swift  it  came, 

And  touched  me,  passing  like  a  flower,  a  flame, 

A  breath!  .  .  .  that  thrilled  my  heart  and  gave  a 

voice 

To  all  my  yearnings,  mute  so  long ; 
That  bade  me  see  the  glad  world  and  rejoice 
And  sing!    Untutored  was  the  song, 
Soon  ended ;  but  I  was  a  poet  then, 
Crowned  and  anointed.    Not  again 
The  spirit  came.    I  would  recall 
The  song  to-day,  that  I  might  sing  once  more 
To  myself  only,  for  old  sake,  before 
I  come  upon  the  silence  of  the  night. 
For  when  the  shadows  of  the  cypress  fall 
Thickly  about  me,  and  there  is  no  light, 
No  voice,  to  guide,  I  would  remember  how 
That  day  the  laurel  felt  upon  my  brow ! 

15 


Once,  within  a  desolate  place, 

Broken,  I  cried  aloud  for  grace; 

Silence  and  night  surrounded  me, 

Immortal,  in  eternity. 

I  waited,  desperate,  for  a  space. 

A  light,  a  voice!    I  slipped  my  fear 

Back  into  time;  my  sight  came  clear 

To  heavenly  vision,  and  I  saw ! 

And  with  the  joy  of  comradeship 

His  name  came  bravely  to  my  lip : 

His,  whom  we  name  but  do  not  know, 

And  have  misjudged  a  fear,  an  awe, 

A  scourge!     I  did  not  find  him  so! 

There  is  not  very  far  to  go 

Before  the  grave  shall  cumber  me: 

I  would  remember  now,  against  the  day 

I  stand  once  more  within  the  uncounted,  slow, 

And  timeless  pauses  of  eternity, 

The  light  I  saw,  the  voice  I  heard,  the  way 

My  soul,  scarce  knowing  what  befell, 

Was  lifted  in  a  miracle! 

I  may  not  choose;  but,  Memory! 
Befriend  me  in  eternity ! 


16 


Reminiscence 

The  grass  is  deep  as  ever  on  the  hill ; 

There  lies  the  Kiskiminetas,  agleam 

With  an  old  sunset;  there  the  dusky  stream 

Of  Loyalhanna  whispers  and  is  still; 

There  is  the  haunted  house.    The  ghosts  that  fill 

The  shadows  draw  me  to  a  school-boy  dream,  .  .  . 

Was  that  Bob  White?     What  made  the  hoot-owl 

scream  ? 
What  stirred  the  menace  of  the  whippoorwill  ? 

Among  the  trees  glimmer  the  lights  of  school  .  .  . 
Why  is  the  gang  so  late?    When  reckless  Bob 
Moved  the  adventure,  every  heart  was  bold : 
Shall  we  waste  midnight  for  a  silly  rule? 
Come,  ghosts,  and  gather  here  on  Locust  Knob; 
Yonder' s  the  moon,  just  half  a  century  old! 


Mist 

Where  little  Aughwick's  deeper  pools  are  spread 
The  white  mist  rises  from  the  meadow-land, 
Stealing  from  tree  to  tree,  slow,  sinuous,  bland, 
Till  hedge  and  house  are  covered,  shop  and  shed ; 
Then  mellower  with  pale  moonlight  overhead 
Crawls  to  the  churchyard  wall,  where,  like  a  band 
Of  Death's  unsleeping,  silent  watchmen,  stand 
Broken,  forgotten,  gravestones  of  the  dead.  .".  v 

I  know  not  why  my  fancy  haunts  the  place : 
Grandsire  and  grandam,  whom  I  never  knew, 
Lie  all  neglected  in  their  sunken  plot.  .  .  . 
Over  my  shoulder  is  a  gloomy  space 
Of  shadows,  with  no  starlight  breaking  through.  . 
I  whisper,  but  the  shadows  answer  me  not. 


18 


Reprieve 

Last  night  at  midnight  wakened  by  the  shock 
Of  sudden  sound  within  my  room  I  heard 
The  quiet,  measured  steps  of  one  who  stirred 
At  watch  about  my  bed.    The  fatal  clock 
That  rang  the  hour  could  not  outring  the  knock 
Upon  the  door,  the  harsh,  insistent  word, 
The  struggle,  the  victory,  the  doom  deferred 
With  sharp  denial,  and  the  straining  lock.  .  .  . 

I  beat  my  brain  with  question,  while  the  hour 
Before  the  dawn  drew  out  the  weary  length 
Of  darkness, — till  day's  answer  took  my  breath : 
Here  by  my  bedside  power  has  striven  with  power, 
And  Death  and  Time  have  measured  strength  with 

strength, 
And  Time  held  back  my  soul  once  more  from  Death ! 


19 


Notice 

This  is  the  city  of  youth, — 
Old  grey-beard,  get  you  gone! 
Set  your  pack  of  threadbare  truth 
On  your  back,  and  let  the  dawn 
Find  you  many  a  league  away: 
Youth  awaits  another  day; 
Woe  is  on  you  if  you  stay ! 

For  this  dawn  about  to  break 
Will  so  dazzle  your  old  sight 
That  the  sun  you  will  mistake 
For  the  very  dead  of  night; 
And  the  breath  of  it,  the  breeze 
Blowing  freshly  pole  to  pole, 
Clearing  worlds  of  old  disease, 
Will  be  stifling  to  your  soul. 

You  will  never  learn  the  way 
Men  must  go  from  place  to  place; 
What  your  old  directions  say 
Will  not  help  your  feet  to  trace 
Any  dear,  familiar  track 
Through  the  windings  of  the  town ; 
Nor  your  ancient  almanack 
Tell  when  stars  go  up  and  down.  . 


20 


Yonder,  see,  they  rise, — afar, 
On  the  dim  horizon's  line : 
Towers  beneath  a  setting  star : 
City,  that,  of  yours  and  mine. 
Soon  will  break  the  alien  dawn,— 
We  must  pack  and  go,  forsooth.  .  . 
You  are  old  now, — get  you  gone, 
Grey-beard!    This  is  the  city  of  youth! 


21 


I.M. 

Deal  bravely  with  him,  Death ! 

He  did  not  fear  thee, 

Nor  cry  with  coward  breath 

When  he  came  near  thee. 

Then  he  no  more  than  we 

Divined  thy  being : 

We  are  more  blind,  but  he 

Sees  with  thy  seeing.  .  .  . 

Why  was  it  Death  preferred 
Him,  the  new-parted? 
Listen  ...  I  hear  his  word 
Low  and  light-hearted 
Lingering  still, — the  jest 
But  touched  with  laughter : 
He  did  not  tire, — but  rest 
Is  his,  hereafter.  . 

Tire?    He?    The  plashy  field, 
His  man  to  cover.  .  . 
Mud-crusted,   heavy-heeled.  .  . 
O,  valiant  lover 

Of  Princeton !    Hear  her  name 
All  through  the  breathless 
Long  pauses  of  the  game! 
Now  he  is  deathless. 


22 


It  was  but  yesterday 
He  met  with  sorrow, — 
A  bitter  game  to  play 
Through  a  long  morrow : 
No  thousand  friends  to  go 
Mad  with  their  cheering.  .  .  . 
But  surely  praises  flow 
Now  in  God's  hearing.  .  . 

So  clean  of  limb  and  soul, 
So  surely-minded! 
The  years  were  his,  the  goal 
His.  .  .  .  We  are  blinded 
With  too  much  grief,  and  vain 
Our  grieving  o'er  him : 
Swiftly,  out  of  brief  pain, 
Peace  lay  before  him.  .  . 

And  of  that  peace  we  know 

Only  the  seeming: 

Sleep, — and  the  deeper  flow 

Of  truer  dreaming.  .  . 

But  his  a  braver  faith, — 

He  was  no  craven! 

Deal  bravely  with  him,  Death, 

In  thy  far  haven.  .  .  . 


In  the  old  Graveyard,  Princeton 

Now  to  this  quiet  place  the  living  come 
To  make  their  question  of  the  faithful  dead. 
Eager  each  name  and  epitaph  is  read; 
And  many  a  deed  recorded,  like  the  drum 
Before  a  battle,  stirs  the  blood,  and  dumb 
White  marble  speaks  for  spirits  long  since  fled. 
"I  served  the  State,"  and  "I  for  freedom  bled," 
"I  taught  the  Word  of  God,"  some  say ;  and  some 
In  humbler  fashion  served  the  lives  of  men.  „ 
But  all  of  them  have  this  as  well  to  say : 
"Let  not  our  limits  hold  your  ventures  back! 
Know  that  we  come  beyond  the  rest;  and  then 
With  higher  aim  upon  the  upward  track 
Leave  us  at  greater  distance  every  day.  ." 


Paganism 

The  tide  is  coming  from  the  sea,  and  brings 

A  cool  sea-savoured  breath  of  air.    The  cry 

Of  homeward  boatmen  flags  as  night  draws  nigh, 

And  each,  forgetful  of  his  traffic,  sings 

Low-toned,  monotonous  chants  of  happy  things.  .  . 

From  far-off  rice-fields,  throug  the  dusky  sky, 

The  crows  are  wheeling  templewards,  and  fly 

To  shelter  with  the  gods  on  reverent  wings.  .  .  . 

High  in  the  heavens,  above  my  town  of  trees, 
The  stars  flash  forth.    .  .  O,  heart, — let  sorrow  go ! 
To-night  the  gods  of  my  lost  mother-land 
Are  near  me, — all  her  kindly  deities 
Of  star  and  stream  and  wilderness.     They  know 
The  prayer  I  make, — they  hear  and  understand! 


The  Sweet-Meat  Vender 

(Bangkok) 

Above  the  town  the  terrible  sun 
Burned  all  the  hours  out,  one  by  one; 
The  full-fed  river  marked  them  well; 
And  with  the  changing  of  the  tide 
A  sampan  slipped  from  the  farther  side, 
Heavy  with  savoury  things  to  sell ; 
And  shrill  the  vender's  coaxing  voice 
Rose  up  above  the  harbour's  noise : 

"Come  and  buy ! 

Friend  of  the  homing  seaman  I, — 

Swatow,  Amoy,  Hailam,  Hong  Kong! — 

Here  is  the  cheer  for  which  you  long : 

Confections  of  such  mealy  paste 

As  foreign  countries  never  taste; 

Sauce  of  the  sea-fish,  briny  still ; 

And  curries  of  a  tropic  will; 

Syrops  of  old  Ayuthian  brew, 

And  fruit  the  Sumray  gardens  grew.  .  .  . 

Ah,  these  cocoanuts  of  mine, 

Packed  with  meat  and  soaked  with  wine! 

Sugar-cane  from  Kanburee, 

Fresh  and  succulent, — buy  of  me! 

None  has  better  store  than  I, — 

Come  and  buy!" 


26 


The  great  pagoda  stood  intent 
Before  the  final  sacrament: 
Circled  in  flame  the  last  hour  died ; 
The  crows,  grown  pious  in  their  quest, 
Came  to  the  Buddha's  roof  for  rest, — 
So  were  the  thieves  beatified! 
Mingled  still  of  honey  and  gall 
Rose  the  same  rich,  persuasive  call: 
"Come  and  buy,  O,  come  and  buy! 
Like  the  temple  crows  am  I, 
Going  with  the  day  to  rest.  .  . 
Good  people,  outland  fare  is  best ! 
.  .  Here  are  messes,  China-made, 
Rice  and  spices,  green  as  jade; 
And  fish  from  the  Singora  shore, 
Sun-dried  upon  a  salty  floor; 
Wines  that  no  local  vintage  gets, — 
And  long  Manila  cigarettes.  .  .  .    ! 
From  Singapore  the  Rajah  sent 
A  fleet  of  such  advertisement.  .  . 
New-fangled  things  for  kings  to  try. 
Come  and  buy,  O,  come  and  buy!" 


27 


Now,  lo!  the  moon  has  builded  high 
A  peacock-palace  in  the  sky, 
And  in  the  magic  of  her  light 
The  trees  lie  silvery  in  the  stream.  . 
Magnolias,  moving  in  a  dream, 
Offer  their  incense  to  the  night.  .  . 
While  faint  and  far,  half-lost  among 
The  echoes,  hear  the  new-set  song! 

"Worth  was  the  toil,  for  such  an  hour.  . 

Out  of  the  day  has  come  the  flower.  .  . 

Richer  the  guerdon  than  the  gold : 

Now  for  the  night  which  dawn  foretold! 

Night  and  rest,  O,  night  and  rest, — 

Life  is  good,  but  love  is  best; 

Life's  a  breath,  but  love's  a  song; 

Life  is  short,  but  love  is  long; 

Night  is  short,  but  love  is  fair; 

Home  is  far,  but  love  is  there.  ..  * 

Night  and  rest,  night  and  rest, — 

Night  and  home  and  love  are  best!" 


28 


The  Native  Christian  to  his  Forsaken 
God 

Poor  god, — would  thou  wert   God,   to   shield  my 

Love, 

Who  loves  not  Christ!     For  me,  strip  body  bare, 
Whip  soul  abroad,  leave  neither  heaven  above, 
Nor  earth,  nor  ultimate  hell,  to  be  my  share; 
I  care  not  for  thy  wrath :  to  me  thy  name 
Is  but  the  name  of  a  forgotten  god; 
Having  denied  thee,  now  I  shall  not  shame 
My  soul  with  protests,  to  escape  thy  rod! 

But,  for  my  Love,  hast  thou  no  power  to  build 
Another  heaven,  as  beautiful,  as  high, 
As  God's,  whom  they  have  brought  us  over  sea? 
Earth  has  grown  dark  with  pity;  heaven  is  filled 
With  presage.  .  .  Now,  low  at  thy  feet  I  lie: 
For  her,  be  God !    Do  what  thou  wilt  with  me ! 


29 


A  Garden  Song  for  the  North  Country 

(Siam) 

Out  in  the  Chieng  Mai  gardens, 

When  the  night  came  on, 
The  air  was  like  the  air 

Of  an  Eden  dawn. 

Out  in  the  Chieng  Mai  gardens, 

When  the  night  was  mute, 
Floated  the  plaintive  note 

Of  a  beggar's  flute. 

Out  in  the  Chieng  Mai  gardens, 

When  the  moon  was  new, 
Glimmered  the  Spirit  of  Palm, 

The  Soul  of  Bamboo. 

Out  in  the  Chieng  Mai  gardens, 

In  the  branch  of  a  Tree, 
Orion  was  held  by  a  dream 

Of  captivity. 

Out  in  the  Chieng  Mai  gardens, 

0  sacred  Tree! 

By  the  light  of  thy  branch  of  stars 

1  found  Charity! 


Nocturne 

(Bangkok) 
There's  a  jewelled  cross  hung  low  in  the  sky, 

And  a  jewelled  cross  on  the  darkling  tide; 
A  light  breeze  falls  from  the  trees,  to  die 

In  the  shadows  that  wait  by  the  water-side.  .  . 

But  it  scatters  the  jewels  far  and  wide 
From  the  cross  in  the  tide  as  it  trembles  by. 

In  the  cross  of  stars  no  loss  is  felt; 

But  the  shadows  that  wait  by  the  water  shrink, 
And  the  greater  stars  grow  faint,  and  melt 

In  an  eddy  of  stars,  by  the  water's  brink; 
In  the  water  beneath  me  swirl  and  sink 

The  three  small  stars  of  Orion's  belt! 


Branch  of  Palm 

(Northern  Siam) 

I  have  no  way  to  guess 

Whose  is  the  mound 
Here  in  the  wilderness 

My  feet  have  found; 
Tall  stand  the  trees  around, 

Stately,  sedate; 
Old  rituals  abound 

Inviolate.  .  . 

Palm  to  the  heart  of  palm, 

Teak  unto  teak, 
Breathe  the  authentic  calm, 

Superbly  meek; 
Waters,  high-crested,  seek 

To  vail  their  pride, 
From  lowly  creek  to  creek 

Pouring,  full-tide. 

Who  in  this  place  of  peace, 

Watery,  dim, 
Waits  long  for  his  release? 

Unknown,  for  him 
I  break  the  budding  limb 

Of  a  young  tree: 
One  grace,  in  all  this  grim 

Sobriety. 


Mango  Song 

Smell  o'  mangoes,  mellow  in  the  tree, — 

See  them,  hanging  ready  to  fall, 
Breaking  with  beauty,  falling  to  me : 
Mine  are  the  mangoes,  one  and  all! 
(Waiting,  waiting, 
Under  the  branches.  .) 

Mellow  mangoes,  dropping  on  the  lawn, — 
Hear  them  falling,  all  through  the  night; 
Waking  so  early,  out  with  the  dawn, 
Gather  my  mangoes,  golden-bright! 
(Gathering,  gathering, 
Under  the  green  tree.  .  .  .) 

Drowsy  mangoes,  dropping  in  the  stream,- 
Hear  them  falling,  all  through  the  day; 
Sleeping  so  early,  far  in  a  dream 
I  and  my  mangoes  float  away.  .  . 
(Floating,  floating, 
Far  from  the  low  bank.  .  .  .) 

Flaming  mangoes,  dropping  in  the  Deep, 

Falling,  floating,  far  from  the  Shore.  .  . 
When  shall  I  waken  out  of  my  sleep? 
O,for  the  mangoes,  mine  no  more!  .  . 
(Searching,  searching, 
Hard  by  heaven-gate!) 


33 


Among  the  Ruins 

(Northern  Siam,  Winter,  1919) 

I 

Here  is  a  temple,  old,  so  old, 
The  country  folk  remember  not 
The  years;  Time  shall  the  secret  fold, — 
For  even  History  has  forgot. 

The  bullock-driver  whom  I  ask 
For  dates  of  founders  wonders  why 
Strangers  go  mad, — resumes  his  task, 
And  drives  his  team  unheeding  by. 

The  yellow,  time-encrusted  priest 
Shows  one  bleak  tooth  and  says  that  he, 
Deep  in  the  wisdom  of  the  East, 
Cannot  bephrase  antiquity.  .  .  . 

II 

The  high  towers  crumble  as  I  look ; 
And  Buddhas  rot  in  every  niche: 
It  is  not  writ  in  any  book 
Oblivion  could  be  so  rich.  .  . 

Gold  of  forgotten  mines  was  here, 
And  ruby  once  with  emerald  flashed; 
By  altars,  dull  this  many  a  year, 
Cymbals  and  gongs  of  silver  clashed; 

34 


And  kings  went  up  by  flowery  stairs 

To  hear  the  holy  oracle, — 

Where  now  one  priest,  with  toothless  prayers, 

Chants  to  a  tinkling  modern  bell. 

Ill 

I  climb  from  dragon- fended  porch 
By  broken  turrets  to  the  roof, 
From  which  of  old,  with  gong  and  torch, 
The  evil  world  was  held  aloof. 

The  sacred  tree  has  rooted  there 
And  overturns  a  sacred  shrine; 
And  here  beside  a  shattered  stair 
A  god  is  rescued, — by  a  vine! 

Is  this  the  lot  of  saint  and  knave  ? 
Do  good  and  evil  take  no  heed? 
A  thieving  creeper  comes  to  save 
A  godhead  in  his  hour  of  need ! 

IV 

For  such  as  I,  who  ask  a  sign, 
Must  this  the  only  answer  be  ? 
And  ever  must  the  Buddha's  shrine 
Be  ruined  by  the  Buddha's  tree? 


35 


Faith  after  faith  has  flourished  here, 
Nor  wrath  nor  pity  been  preferred ; 
And  still  from  fruitless  year  to  year 
Prayer  shall  be  offered, — and  unheard! 

Unheard  ?    I  may  not  say  as  much ! 
Near  by  I  see  the  Christian  cross : 
Shall  Buddha  perish  at  the  touch, 
Nor  Christ  be  poorer  for  the  loss  ? 

V 

The  light  across  the  paddy-field 
Fades  in  a  glory,  and  I  go, — 
Glad  of  a  mystery  unrevealed, 
Glad  of  a  truth  I  may  not  know ! 


"There's  Rosemary" 

Like  a  white  flower  afloat  on  deep 
Mysterious  waters  of  the  night, 
Heavy  and  odorous,  half -asleep, 
Between  the  stream  and  the  moonlight : 

Such,  now  I  fancy,  such  thou  art, 
O,  long-lost  city  of  my  birth, 
Still  the  fair  city  of  my  heart, — 
One  perfect  city  of  the  earth ! 

.  .  .  Could  I  from  usual  modes  escape 
And  of  my  love  my  skill  inform, 
Out  of  my  memories  I  might  shape 
Temples  and  towers,  white  and  warm, 

With  roofs  resplendent  in  the  sun ; 
And  thatch  a  thousand  cottages, 
All  bamboo-built,  and  every  one 
Embowered  in  richly-blossomed  trees; 

And  grow  palm-gardens  by  the  flanks 
Of  many-branched,  mighty  streams, — 
Dark,  languorous  waters,  by  whose  banks 
A  universe  is  lost  in  dreams; 

And  set  a  fleet  of  boats  afloat, 
Giving  to  each  a  lazy  oar, — 
Fill  them  with  mellow  fruit  and  boat 
My  delicate  cargoes,  shore  to  shore; 

37 


And  fix  a  firmament  of  stars 
In  constellations  new,  and  gay 
Bedeck  with  planets  all  the  bars 
And  tangles  of  the  milky  way; 

And  for  Orion's  belt  emboss 
A  new  design  to  dazzle  night ; 
And  touch  the  symbol  of  the  Cross 
With  deeper  mysteries  of  light; 

And  show  the  way  the  Buddha  went, — 
By  more  than  foot-prints  in  the  stone.  . 
(Since  the  long  way  to  His  content, 
To  me,  for  ever  is  unknown.  .) 

...  Or  nearer  yet,  of  dearer  days 
And  fonder  memories  far,  I  might 
A  broad-verandahed  mansion  raise, 
And  to  its  cordial  rooms  invite.  .  .  . 

Or  to  the  lawns,  beneath  the  shade 
Of  mango-branches,  low  with  fruit, — 
To  many  a  flowery  esplanade.  .  .  . 
And  paradises,  absolute! 

There  should  magnolias  be.     The  scent 

Clings  to  my  English  fairy-tales, 

As  if  from  out  the  Orient 

Came  argosies  of  English  sails.  .  . 


(O,  could  I  listen  once  again! 
There  is  a  grave  upon  a  hill, 
Mournful  in  sunshine  or  in  rain.  . 
No  more :  the  magic  tones  are  still.  . ) 

Go,  dreams  and  memories,  go !    I  fain 
Would  waken,  waken  and  forget; 
Here  are  the  grey  skies  and  the  rain, 
Bare  trees  in  windy  gardens  set ; 

And  straight  long  streets  where  people  pass, 
Traffic  and  chatter,  till  they  seem 
Themselves  but  shadows  in  a  glass, 
Or  figments  of  another  dream. 

Another  dream!     Ay,  dreaming  still! 
.  .  .  .  Grey  towers  upon  an  autumn  sky; 
Dream-locked  on  an  enchanted  hill, 
While  yonder  all  the  world  goes  by! 

O,  flower-like  city  of  the  past! 

O,  little  town  of  towered  halls ! 

Ye  are  the  two  where,  first  and  last, 

The  day  rose  and  the  twilight  falls.  .  . 

The  day  rose  on  a  sunny  strand 
Where  joys  at  end  were  joy's  increase; 
The  evening  falls,  and  through  the  land 
I  hear  the  folding  wings  of  peace. 


39 


On  the  Caribbean  Sea,  Before  Kingston 

Two  bars  of  cloud, 

Long,  level,  angry  browed, 

Hang  over  Kingston  as  the  sun 

Touches  the  mountains,  and  the  day  is  done, — 

Kingston,  that  lies 

Indifferent  to  the  skies, 

Warm,  silent,  beautiful,  adream 

In  the  late  light  that  floods  now  like  a  stream 

Of  amber  haze 

Through  all  her  dusty  ways 

Sad  fading  beauty,  that  will  dim 

When  the  sun  sinks  beyond  the  mountains'  rim ; — 

Poor  broken  town 

Of  shattered  houses,  down 

Whose  melancholy  vistas  pass 

Children  of  Fate,  like  figures  in  the  glass 

Of  prophecy! 

Destiny  shadows  thee : 

Arisen  as  thou  art  to-day, 

There  stand  the  mountains  still,  there  lies  the  bay, 

Waiting  the  hour 

When  once  again  their  power 

Shall  be  unloosed,  and  all  their  might 

Falling  upon  thee,  sink  thee  in  the  night 


40 


My  head  is  bowed.  .  .  . 

But  the  two  bars  of  cloud 

Catch  the  sun's  light  that  lowers  nigh 

And  suddenly  blaze  across  a  brazen  sky ! 

Blaze,  glow,  and  melt 

Into  a  radiant  belt, 

So  greatly  fashioned,  shining  bright, — 

Archangel's  girdle,  thrown  upon  the  night! 

Strange  jewels  these 

Upon  what  stranger  seas ! 

Sapphire  and  amethyst  and  pearl 

And  opal,  dropping  in  a  ruddy  whorl 

Of  gold, — a  mine 

Of  fabulous  design! 

From  which  the  poet  or  the  king 

Might  figure  crowns  to  wear  or  songs  to  sing ! 

But  more,  yet  more, 
Beyond  all  jewel-lore, 
The  precious  things  before  the  bars 
Of  night  are  strewn  and  cover  up  the  stars! 
I  have  no  name 
For  orange  that  is  flame, 
For  flame  that  flakes  to  ashen  gray 
And  trembles  liquidly  and  fades  away.  .  . 
Such  a  high  red 
Befits  the  morning's  bed; 
Outreds  the  ruby  and  the  rose; 
And  here  the  Tyrian  splendour  spreads  and 
grows.  .  .  . 


Soul,  on  thy  guard! 

Lo,  jasper  here,  and  sard, 

And  emerald !    In  the  mass 

Up-piled,  the  Rainbow  and  the  Sea  of  Glass ! 

The  sea  runs  wine.  .  .  ,  . 

Across  this  hand  of  mine 

Falls  blood,  as  from  a  cup.  .  . 

I  dare  to  lift  my  thirsting  spirit  up! 

After  such  sight 

Mine  eyes  long  for  the  night.  .  . 

Above  the  ship's  unsteady  mast 

On  toward  the  sunset,  lo !  the  moon  has  passed, 

And  opened  there 

Pale,  patient,  chary,  rare, 

Cold,  cold,  her  quieter  array, 

Her  humbler  beauty  and  her  tenderer  sway 

Of  light !  O  dream 

Of  God !  The  two  clouds  seem 

The  entrance  now  to  high  estate, 

And  bar,  be  sure,  the  way  to  the  straight  gate. 

We  may  not  pass ; 

But  here  we  may  amass 

Glories ;  and  we  may  gather  here 

Splendours :  may  praise  and  love  and  fear. 


42 


Kingston,  beyond 

The  bay,  lies  still  and  fond; 

Dies  half  the  light  at  last,  and  stars 

Newly-articulate  shine  by  the  cloud-bars.  .  . 

Poor  shattered  town 

Of  houses  broken  down.  .  .  . 

By  whom?     Of  age-old  graves  unsealed.  .  . 

By  whom?    Why  question  love  or  wrath  revealed? 

Say,  merely  chance, 

Or  luckless  circumstance : 

Eternal  struggle  of  sea  and'  land : 

Men  perish  so:  we  may  not  understand. 

Another  day 

Shall  come  and  pass  away, 

And  all  this  blazonry  and  bloom.  .  .  . 

Kingston,  beneath  the  stars,  awaits  the  doom.  .  . 


43 


Dawn 

(At  sea,  approaching  Oahu) 
Out  of  the  sea 
Uprise  majestically 
Precipitous  peaks  of  cloud,  afar, 
Bleak  and  austere  under  a  fading  star. 

Before  the  sun 

Exhausted  heralds  run : 

Stars  die  upon  the  stairs  of  dawn, 

And  the  gray  moon  into  gray  day  is  drawn. 

There  is  no  sound 

The  serious  earth  around, 

Save  the  grave  music  of  the  sea, 

And  the  great  winds  that  blow  eternally ! 


44 


Weather 

(Honolulu) 

Manoa  rains,  Nuuanu  rains, 
Have  joined  against  the  window  panes, 
And  down  from  Tantalus  I  see 
Another  rain  rush  rapidly.  .  . 
And  somewhere  over  Diamond  Head 
Hang  heavier  rains  as  yet  unshed, 
And  desperate  clouds  go  hurrying  by 
To  break  in  rains  on  Waianae.  .  . 

Manoa  blooms  in  rainbows  now; 
Nuuanu  drips  from  every  bough; 
And  Honolulu  in  the  sun 
Is  laughing  that  the  rain  is  done.  .  .  . 
And  as  the  final  showers  low 
Across  the  farther  waters  go, 
They  catch  the  colours  of  the  sun, — 
Their  solace  for  oblivion. 


45 


Island  Magic 

(On  Tantalus,  Oahu) 
Nymph  nor  faun  has  pastured  here, 

Satyr  never  came  this  way; 
In  such  groves  for  very  fear 

Pan  himself  had  gone  astray; 
Nightingale  was  never  heard, 

Stag  was  never  given  chase; 
Surely  other  Magic  stirred 

In  the  stillness  of  the  place! 

Winds  that  sweep  the  world  away 

Falter  here  and. fall  asleep; 
Suns  that  lead  the  rains  astray 

Draw  them  here  from  all  the  Deep; 
Stars  that  ever  all  the  night 

Keep  their  solemn  stately  pace; 
Moons,  fulfilled  of  long  delight.  .  .  . 

Work  their  Magic  in  the  place. 

Hush !  I  hear  a  whisper  now : 

Leaf  on  leaf  is  all  astir; 
Every  blossom,  every  bough 

Answers  to  the  whisperer.  ... 
Birds,  enchanted,  on  spread  wings, 

Hang  where  branches  interlace.  .  . 
What  invisible,  holy  things 

Work  their  Magic  in  the  place? 


Cloud  and  fog  enfold  the  heights; 

Rainbows  droop  across  the  vale.  .  . 
Whence  come  all  the  radiant  lights 

Riding  down  the  azure  trail? 
Sunset  on  Kaena  Head?  .  . 

Nay, — no  sun  gave  such  a  grace! 
Ghosts  of  gods  for  ages  dead 

Work  their  Magic  in  the  place.  .  . 

Look!  the  night  has  fallen  now; 

Darkness  deepens  at  my  feet ; 
I,  who  have  no  magic,  how 

Shall  I  match  them  when  we  meet? 
Winds  are  up  and  shake  the  world, — 

Here  I  stand  and  pray  a  space.  .  . 
Darkness  upon  Darkness  hurled 

Works  black  Magic  in  the  place! 


47 


The  Sorrowful  Dead 

(Honolulu) 

i 

Over  Leahi  the  night  falls; 
Far,  far  south  Kahiki  calls. 

Shimmering  water  by  the  shore 
Foams  and  breaks  for  evermore. 

Pu-u  Ohia,  amethyst, 

Droops  and  fades  in  rain  and  mist. 

Awawaloa,  hooded,  pale, 

Leans  against  the  northern  gale. 

To  Honolulu  night-fall  brings 
Melancholy  shades  of  kings. 

Over  the  Pali  wailing  ghosts 
Of  slain  men  rise  up  in  hosts. 

Down  Nu-u-anu  hear  the  sound 
Of  dead  feet  on  the  wet  ground. 

2 

"What  malihini  goeth  there, 
White  of  skin,  and  false  as  fair?" 

Out  of  the  North  Wind  once  he  came, 
Bearing  gifts  of  death  and  shame. 

48 


"What  malihini  passeth  now, 
With  slant  eye  and  sullen  brow?" 

Out  of  the  West  Wind  he  was  born, 
Bearing  gifts  of  pride  and  scorn. 

"Sons  of  our  women,  are  there  none 
Worthy  of  the  fame  we  zvon?" 

Are  there  no  spirits  in  the  gloom 
Chanting  their  heroic  doom? 

"Shadow  of  shadow,  ghost  of  ghost, 
Of  their  death  they  make  no  boast!" 

All  is  forgotten  but  the  name: 
Let  the  gods  allot  the  blame. 

3 

"Can  the  winds  bear  us  on  strong  wings? 
Men  were  ive, — heroes  and  kings!" 

Winds  that  are  mighty  sweep  the  skies, 
But  far  south  Kahiki  lies. 

"Let  the  ^vinds  bear  us,  star  to  star, 
Where  our  great  forefathers  are.  .  .  . 

"Farewell,  Oahu, — ours  no  more!)3 
Winds  blow  strong  above  the  shore.  .  V': 

Over  Leahi  the  night  falls; 
Far,  far  south  Kahiki  calls. 

49 


Royalty 

(For  Sarah  Morris) 

If  I  were  the  Queen  of  China, 

Ever  so  great  and  grand, 
I'd  go  to  the  Desert  of  Gobi, 

And  sit  me  down  in  the  sand, 
And  call  all  the  camels  together 

To  eat  from  my  queenly  hand : 

And  I'd  write  to  the  Queen  of  Russia 
To  drop  all  her  worries  and  cares 

And  pay  me  a  royal  visit 

For  the  sake  of  the  desert  airs, — 

Away  from  friends  and  family 
And  manners  and  fuss  and  chairs: 

And  as  we'd  be  talking  we'd  notice 

A  runaway  rickshaw-man, 
Draw  up  with  a  silvery  lady 

Who  carried  an  ivory  fan : 
And  I'd  cry  to  the  Queen  of  Russia, 

"It's  the  beautiful  Queen  of  Japan!" 

I'd  order  a  thousand  muffins, 
And  a  hundred  jars  of  jam, 

And  while  we'd  be  licking  our  fingers, 
And  crying,  "How  neat  I  am!," 

We'd  see  a  big  elephant  coming, 
Conveying  the  Queen  of  Siam! — 

50 


And  we  four  queens  together 

Would  gossip  over  our  tea 
Till  the  moon  came  up,  and  the  camels 

Were  sleeping  so  peacefully! — 
There  in  the  Desert  of  Gobi, 

Those  three  queens — and  me! 


Easter  at  Sano 

We  came  to  Sano  beaten  by  loud  brawls 
Of  ugly  weather.    Over  us  in  our  flight 
Dusk  fell  to  darkness,  and  the  hostile  night 
With  rain  enclosed  us,  as  with  watery  walls ; 
Through  which  our  headlights  bored,   like  starry 

awls 

Point-broken  at  the  inch's  end.  The  spite 
Of  Spirits  was  against  us,  and  their  might 
Had  monstrous  voice  in  winds  and  waterfalls.  .  .  . 

The  Spirits  fled  before  the  scouts  of  day.  .  . 

I  woke  with  windows  open  to  the  lawn : 

White  lay  the  plum-bloom  on  the  springing  sward. 

I  climbed  the  slopes,  I  saw  the  pall  of  grey 

Lift  from  the  plains, — and  lo!  the  glass  of  dawn! 

Fuji,  perfect  in  victory, — Conqueror!     Lord! 


April  Afternoon 

I  can  make  rhymes  about  you,  while  the  rain 
Drips  from  the  slate  to  little  garden  pools : 
I  can  sit  here  and  count  the  instant  gain 
Of  one  more  syllable  in  a  line  for  fools.  .  .  . 
Your  shadow  once  was  light  upon  the  way 
I  walked,  and  my  own  shadow  was  as  yours ; 
But  neither  shadow  found  a  word  to  say, 
And  shadow-begot-and-born  no  love  endures. 
I  might  have  flashed  my  winter  into  spring 
With  blossom  and  song  in  gardens  of  my  heart: 
Perhaps, — but  since  it  were  a  terrible  thing 
Wrong-guessing  of  hearts  and  seasons,  for  my  part 
I  chose  to  lift  my  shadow  and  begone. 
Here  the  rain  trails  no  shadows  on  the  lawn. 


53 


Memorials 

Lovers  may  pipe  a  sentimental  eye 

When  robin  or  thrush  has  startled  memories; 

Hearing  the  hungry  grunting  of  a  sty 

I  have  been  won  to  lost  divinities : 

It  takes  no  flower  to  bear  the  odour  here 

Of  flowers  I  have  attended  years  ago : 

A  neighbour's  orgy,  reeking  of  stale  beer, 

Has  agonized  the  savour  of  old  woe; 

I  need  no  waning  moon,  nor  stars'  eclipse, 

That  I  may  dream  of  beauty  gone  to  mould : 

A  dog  may  howl  of  broken  fellowships, — 

A  crow  call  up  more  grief  than  heart  can  hold. 

I  saw  an  ugly  gas-tank  by  a  tree: 

Oceans  were  drained  and  lands  dissolved  for  me. 


54 


Another  Note  of  Spring 

Fly  down  the  March  wind,  with  the  yellow  dust 

Enfolding  you!     For  what  does  Virtue  here? 

Sitting  by  winter  fires,  because  I  must, 

I  grudge  you  fellowship  for  all  the  year! 

But  now,  but  now,  the  warm  soft  rains  have  come ; 

And  if  a  wind  belated  carries  snow 

We  match  his  burden  with  the  bending  plum. 

Fly  down,  dull  Virtue,  like  the  puritan  crow, 

Down  the  March  wind,  black  in  the  yellow  cloud, 

And  nest  on  some  bleak  island  off  the  shore 

Where  for  all  months  the  virtuous  winds  are  loud, 

And  through  all  seasons  piety  makes  a  roar! 

I  know  a  place  for  April :  there's  a  tree 

All  blossomy,  shadowy,  dreamy,  showery,  free! 


55 


Reinanzaka,  the  Hill  of  Whispers 

(Tokyo) 

(a  sleepless  night) 
I  see  at  midnight  Reinanzaka  climb 
Her  shadowy  slope,  and,  as  on  mischief  bent, 
Pause  in  the  moonlight,  halving  the  ascent, 
Herself  to  preen,  herself  with  pantomime 
To  mock,  grotesquely  posing.    All  the  time, 
I  hear  the  sinister  echoes,  never  meant 
For  human  ear,  betraying  the  hill's  intent 
To  masque  herself  for  high  fantastic  crime. 

What  Reinanzaka  does  at  last  of  ill 

I  dimly  image.    Palaces,  I  know, 

She  whispers  to,  through  long-unopened  gates; 

And  cottages  she  holds  in  confidence,  to  fill 

With  still  conspiracies.  .  .     The  night  is  slow.  . 

Dawn,  till  these  whisperings  are  done  with,  waits. 


On  the  Fly-leaf  of  a  Manual  of  Arms 

By  a  Soldier  who  never  went  to  the  War 

When  I  have  done  with  Time  and  need  no  more 
Count  the  poor  mintage  of  the  current  days, 
Nor  spend  them  miserly  from  a  shrunken  store, 
Regretful  of  youth's  large,  extravagant  ways; 
When  I  have  done  with  place,  and  shall  not  care 
To  close  my  gate  against  the  going  out 
Or  coming  in  of  ghosts,  nor  touch  the  air 
With  incense  lest  there  be  old  sins  about; — 
Shall  I  forego  the  seasons  utterly 
And  hear  no  echo  of  the  spring's  acclaim  ? 
Nor  sigh  for  one  closed  house  that  used  to  be 
High  altar  of  my  gods,  when  winter  came? 
....  And  of  this  war  shall  I  have  then  no  sense  ?- 
Death  grown  improvident,  obscene,  immense! 


57 


The  Wise  Crow 

When  will  the  winter  go? — 

"Go,  go!"  mocks  the  old  crow, 
Perched  in  the  cherry-tree  over  the  snow; 
"Winter  will  go  some  day; 
March  winds  will  blow  away 
Plum-bloom  as  well  as  snow; 
Go,  go !"  mocks  the  old  crow : 
"Spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter, 
All  go!" 

When  will  the  war  have  done? 

"Done,  done,"  cries  the  black  one, 
High  on  the  temple-roof,  warm  in  the  sun; 
"War  will  have  done  some  day; 
Peace  will  have  laid  away 
Soldier  as  well  as  gun; 
Done,  done!"  cries  the  black  one, — 
"Strength,  courage,  honour,  glory, — 
All  done!" 

Why  do  you  croak  and  caw  ? — 

"Caw,  caw!"  laughs  the  outlaw, 
Smug  in  the  market-cart,  pecking  the  straw 
"I  too  shall  go  some  day 
Ever  so  far  away, — 
Will  you  not  follow?    Pshaw! 
Caw,  caw!"  laughs  the  outlaw: 
"What  will  you  do  for  wisdom? 
Caw,  caw!" 

58 


The  Spring  Drive 

(1918) 

I  said  to  March :   Who  let  you  in 

With  your  loud  infernal  din? 

If  you  can't  be  quiet,  go 

To  some  bigger  star  and  blow: 

Here  you  take  up  so  much  room 

The  plums  have  no  place  left  to  bloom ! 

I  said  to  March :   Why  do  you  come 
Army-like,  with  trump  and  drum? 
With  such  circumstance,  you  wake 
Man's  bitter,  immemorial  ache : 
Wounds  remembered  stir  his  rage 
To  fight  for  quieter  heritage. 

I  said  to  March:    For  God's  sake  now, — 
Shattered  bush  and  broken  bough, 
Tokens  of  your  prowess,  lie 
By  every  garden  wall,  to  die : 
Blowing  high  your  victory, — cease! 
Let  April  bring  the  word  of  peace ! 

I  said  to  March :   Let  April  bring 
Showers  for  a  bowery  blossoming; 
Balm  to  mend  the  wounded  boughs 
Where  birds  may  choose  again  to  house ; 
....  Grass  to  cover  with  an  arch 
The  boys  who  died !    I  said  to  March. 

59 


Ginza  in  War-Time 

From  Shimbashi  to  Nihonbashi 

I  walk  the  crowded  mile, 
And  Ginza  pours  out  all  her  stores 

To  dazzle  and  beguile. 

So  like  a  stream  with  ebb  and  flow 

In  counter  currents  mixed, 
All  day  there  rolls  the  flood  of  souls, 

Un  fathomed  and  unfixed.  .  . 

The  little  mother  with  her  child 

Upon  her  back,  asleep : 
What  whim  bears  her  a  passenger 

From  deep  to  answerless  deep? 

The  student  with  his  spectacles, 

His  tablet  and  his  book : 
When  learning  fails,  what  then  avails? 

Prayer-wheels  or  Pentateuch? 

The  laughing  geisha, — humming-bird 
With  star-embroidered  wings: 

When  laughter  dies,  will  crashing  skies 
Blot  out  such  futile  things? 


60 


The  tradesman  bartering  as  he  goes, — 

The  customer  who  waits : 
They  buy  and  sell, — who  can  foretell 

Their  bargain  with  the  fates  ? 

And  such  as  I  who  loiter  by, — 

Do  not  the  voices  call  ? 
"It's  home  and  home, ,  O  ye  who  roam,  ,- 

Dear  God,  I  need  you  all ! 

'The  eddies  of  the  Boulevards 

No  longer  surge  and  roar : 
The  gentle  stir  of  a  backwater 

On  a  melancholy  shore; 

"The  tides  of  Piccadilly 

Flow  not  so  full  to-day; 
The  Corso  bears  a  flood  of  tears; 

The  lights  have  left  Broadway; 

"The  Nevsky  Prospect  is  a  stream 
Whose  sources  none  may  guess; 

Nor  what  may  be  the  final  sea 

Toward  which  the  waters  press 

"Shall  Ginza  then  pour  out  her  store 

Your  fancy  to  beguile, 
Who  give  your  sighs  for  butterflies, — 

Go  bankrupt  for  a  smile? 


61 


"Come  home  and  home,  my  sons  wha  roam ! 

Dear  God,  I  need  you  all!" 
Over  the  gods  of  Ginza 

I  hear  my  own  Gods  call.  .  . 

From  Nihonbashi  to  Shimbashi 

I  walk  a  sorry  mile : 
Grim  night  conies  down  upon  the  town, — 

Ginza  ends  here,  meanwhile. 


62 


Scenario 

(Tokyo) 

i 

0,  Tokyo  lights  are  low  to-night 
Under  the  spring-struck  cherry-trees; 

Stars  in  far  sconces  flare,  to  light 
The  ghostly  companies. 

For  now  the  dead  are  come  again: 
O  happy  night!    O  night  of  dread! 

Half-sick  of  living,  I  am  fain 
Of  commerce  with  the  dead. 

1,  who  have  served,  would  serve  once  more 
Nothing  but  words  the  new  world  needs : 

I  would  the  older  day  restore 
When  service  lay  in  deeds ! 

My  spirit  goes  among  them,  ay, — 
Silent  and  reverent,  even  as  they; 

Once  more  I  am  a  Samurai 
Walking  the  Knightly  Way ! 


2 

The  pines  shadow  the  moat.    I  see 
The  new  raw  city  fade;  I  know 

The  music  that  I  hear ;  for  me 
The  old  shrill  trumpets  blow.  .  . 

For  me  the  ages  are  withdrawn : 

I  must  bear  well  the  sword  and  sword ! 

I  have  to  do,  before  the  dawn, 
Rare  service  for  my  lord ! 

They  pass  and  pass.  Calmly  I  wait 
Till  he  shall  bid  me  come  away: 

Now  from  the  Shogun's  amber  gate 
He  calls  .  .  .  i  cannot  stay.  .  . 

I  follow,  and  we  go  apart; 

Above  the  trees  the  stars  grow  dim ; 
There  is  no  question  in  my  heart : 

I  can  but  follow  him. 

Beyond,  I  see  the  shadows  stir; 

The  pallor  of  a  woman's  face 
Gleams  in  the  darkness,  and  for  her 

Love  hallows  the  dim  place 


3 
Thy  spirit's  worth,  O  lordly  soul, 

Is  as  a  crown  upon  thy  brow : 
She  waits  thee  with  her  brimming  bowl 

Under  the  cherries  now; 

The  sake  is  her  seal  of  will : 

Drink,  with  her  fingers  clasped  in  thine; 
The  flawless  cup  she  can  but  fill 

Once  with  such  dear-bought  wine! 

Lo,  now  the  spring  is  nearly  spent : 
The  star-seared  petals  fade  and  fall : 

O,  drink  the  double  sacrament 
Before  the  trumpeters  call ! 

Then  pass,  before  the  length  of  days 
Can  turn  thy  heart  aside,  or  tire ; 

While  yet  the  shadow  of  thy  praise 
Shelters  her  soul's  desire.  .  .  . 

Nothing  is  she,  and  yet  the  host 
Who  lift  the  sword  to  follow  thee 

Will  leave  not  such  another  boast 
For  immortality ! 

O,  dear,  dear,  of  a  maiden's  worth, 
Her  life  has  come  to  answer  thine : 

She  masks  the  dread  of  love  with  mirth, 
And  pours  her  grief  as  wine.  .  . 

65 


O,  light,  light,  have  men  reckoned  her, 
And  light  her  laughter  was  to  hear, — 

But  never  again  her  heart  shall  stir 
Either  to  love  or  fear.  .  .  . 

Nor  joy  shall  shake  her,  nor  the  strain 
Of  music  shall  her  spirit  rouse, 

Till  the  frail  petals  fall  again 
Under  the  cherry  boughs.  .  , 

Then  shall  she  break  all  bonds  and  rise 
To  meet  thee  with  the  untarnished  bowl 

Thine  be  the  lordlier  sacrifice, — 
Hers  is  the  loftier  soul! 

Edge  of  thy  sword,  strength  of  thy  arm, 
Faith  of  thy  host,  she  may  not  be : 

She  weaves  thee  courage  by  a  charm 
And  crowns  thy  loyalty.  . 

With  sombre  pomp  the  daimio  sweeps 

To  die  in  battle  at  the  dawn ; 
The  geisha  bows  her  head1  and  keeps 

Her  cloak  about  her  drawn.  .  .  . 


66 


4 

Were  they  but  ghost  and  ghost,  the  twain 
Who  pledged  and  parted  here  to-night? 

Lovers  of  blossoms,  come  again 
Down  alleys  of  starlight  ? 

How  many  centuries  ago 

They  parted  thus  when  love  was  new ! 
Doom  sealed  their  youth,  and  better  so, — 

For  doom  has  held  them  true! 

O,  something  longer  let  me  wait: 
The  wine,  the  chalice,  he  and  she, — 

Once, — but  love  holds  the  solemn  state 
For  all  eternity ! 

The  dawn  is  grey,  the  clouds  are  low, 
The  branches  sag  with  fruitless  flower: 

I  call  my  spirit  back.  .     We  go 
Thoughtfully,  like  the  hour.  .  .  . 


Vladivostok  Harbour 

(1919) 

Here  I  lie  on  the  windy  hill 

And,  half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn, 

Watch  the  long  streets  of  the  city  thrill 
As  night  descends  on  the  Golden  Horn. 

Row  after  row  the  lights  come  out; 

Over  the  bay  runs  a  starry  trail : 
The  little  boats  all  put  about, 

And  scurry  to  port  with  shortened  sail: 

Beyond  the  island  there,  the  sea 

Dreams  of  the  splendour  of  long  suns : 

Below,  the  gray  ships  silently 

Sniff  at  the  shadows  with  their  guns. 

The  hard  wind  sweeps  the  barren  stone; 

The  air  grows  cold.    I  must  go  down ; 
Yet  scarcely  dare  to  hear,  alone, 

The  heartless  laughter  of  the  town. 

Thistles  are  gay,  but  bear  no  figs; 

Grapes  are  not  gathered  from  the  thorn ; 
Soldiers  and  prostitutes  and  pigs.  .  .  . 

Of  such  what  destiny  is  born? 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  man  and  race 
Purpose  and  faith  must  interlock : 

Time  will  be  tyrant  for  a  space 
And  have  his  will  of  Vladivostok. 

68 


The  End  of  a  British  Seaman 

(Vladivostok) 
From  dead-march  to  quickstep 

Or  ever  the  hour  began ! 
What  was  left  on  the  hill-side 

Was  once  a  living  man. 

Whatever  now  the  measures  be, 

He  will  not  move  again : 
Dead  marches  of  the  winter  wind, 

Or  quicksteps  of  the  rain! 


To  Sylvia,  from  Omsk 

(August,  1919) 
(In  the  time  of  Admiral  Kolchak) 

Sylvia,  in  the  birchwood  here 

Only  the  trees  abide ; 
The  nightingales  are  mute,  the  dear 

White  lilies  all  have  died; 
The  elfin  people,  driven  by  fear, 

Deep  in  the  forest  hide. 

When  I  came  up  here  yesterday 
The  world  was  grey  with  rain; 

Green  leaves  were  fallen  about,  and  lay 
Dead  in  the  dripping  lane; 

.  .  Whatever  joy  there  was  in  May 
August  had  slain !  .  .  . 

But  now,  to-night,  the  uncertain  hour 

Swings  in  a  poise  of  flight; 
The  sun  leans  from  a  flaming  tower 

To  touch  the  edge  of  night; 
Gardens  of  cloud,  in  perfect  flower, 

Are  walled  with  light.     .  . 

(Omsk  with  her  squcdour  fiercely  wrought 

To  beauty,  only  craves 
Pleasure,  however  dearly  bought: 

There,  among  fools  and  knaves, 
The  Hero  fills  with  one  great  thought 

How  many  graves! 

7° 


(Look, — now  the  futile  street-lights  gleam.  . 

The  Admiral's  window  still 
Turns  darkened  panes  upon  the  stream; 

Let  Omsk  be  gay  at  will.  .  .  . 
He  who  is  drunken  with  a  dream 

Must  dream  his  fill. 

(0,  thou,  by  braggart  circumstance 

So  bitterly  beset! 
So  harried  by  the  tricks  of  chance, 

With  treason  darkly  met! 
Faith,  courage,  heavenly  countenance, 

Must  serve  thee  yet!) 

And  as  my  feet  crush  through  the  grass, 

The  silvery,  slender  trees 
Stop  me  with  challenge :    "Who  would  pass 

Into  the  mysteries? 
I  halt  and  answer  them, — "Alas! 

Someone  who  sees 

"Only  the  track  of  those  who  went 

Beneath  a  mid-May  star 
And  took  with  them  to  banishment 

The  loveliest  things  that  are : 
The  birds'  song  and  the  lilies'  scent.  ." ;  '! 

Have  they  fled  far?" 


The  trees  fall  back  and  I  am  free ; 

The  challengers  are  still; 
Woodcraft  or  witchcraft  now  for  me, — 

Come  of  it  good  or  ill ! 
How  far  from  Omsk  a  man  must  be 

Astray  .  .  .  until.  .  . 

Full  floods  the  hour  with  sweet ;  I  tell 
The  passion  of  early  spring; 

What  is  the  bird  that  can  so  well 
Regret  and  promise  sing? 

Can  earthly  lilies  work  this  spell 
By  blossoming? 

(O,  madness  to  be  taken  thus! 

Yonder  the  bugles  blow; 
The  August  night  is  mutinous; 

The  Admiral's  sentries  go 
With  trusty  guns  .  .  or  treacherous.  •.•» 

No  one  can  know!} 

The  Omsky  twilight  dies  at  last; 

The  glimmering  trees  grow  dim : 
What  was  it  brushed  my  arm  and  passed, 

So  gently,  so  swift  of  limb? 
I  cannot,  though  I  follow  fast, 

Catch  up  with  him. 


72 


Is  this  the  place  where  yesterday 

The  solemn  birches  stood 
Under  the  rainy  sky,  in  grey 

Autumnal  attitude? 
Is  August  conjuror  of  May 

For  any  good? 

Was  it  the  future  I  would  know 
That  passed  me  and  denied 

My  question?    Must  the  surety  go? 
Only  the  doubt  abide? 

Can  darkling  faith  in  honour  so 
Be  satisfied? 

What,  in  the  mystery  of  the  wood, 

Of  healing  could  I  find 
Would  turn  a  world's  despair  to  good, 

Or  broken  fealty  bind  ? 
Wisdom,  to  deeper  solitude, 

Fled  like  the  wind! 

Past  all  discernment  is  the  end 

Set  by  the  lords  of  fate; 
The  will  of  time  can  no  man  bend; 

Impatient,  we  must  wait 
Till  fortune  fail  at  last,  or  mend, 

Or  mend  too  late. 


73 


T  was  but  a  child's  enchantment.    I 

Have  come  too  far  astray! 
August,  lest  childlike  faith  should  die, 

Has  tried  the  charm  of  May. 
Now,  childlike,  I  have  questioned  why, 

And  none  will  say! 

(Hero,  whom  men  that  know  thee  not 

Have  slain  with  bitter  lies: 
Thou,  zvhom  the  Future  has  forgot: 

Thou,  whom  the  Past  denies: 
Still  from  thy  window  shines  the  light 

That  nei?er  dies!) 

I  reach  the  town;  the  night-hawks  hoot; 

Winds  of  the  steppes  blow  cold; 
The  sullen  sentry  stamps  his  boot; 

I  touch  his  palm  with  gold : 
"Amerikansky,— hi !    Don't  shoot!",— 

"Da,  da!"    Behold, 

O,  Sylvia,  in  the  birchwood  here 

Only  the  trees  abide! 
The  marvels  of  the  earlier  year 

Have  fled  away  or  died : 
Only  dark  night  and  death  are  near.  .  . 

And  woe  betide ! 


74 


II 

Of  the  Ambulance 

Who  brought  the  message?  It  was  wrapped  in  flame 
And  no  man  brought  it.    Over  sea  it  came 
Swifter  than  death  could  come.     High  over  head 
The  hot  day  reels  and  circles  .  .  .  Who  is  dead? 

Where  did  he  die?    Somewhere  there  in  France, 
With  wounded  poilus  in  an  ambulance; 
Could  no  one  help  him?    That  I  can  not  tell, — 
They  say  they  smashed  the  ambulance  as  well. 

Who  was  he?    Just  a  youngster  in  his  'teens : 
The  day  grows  steady  now  ...  I  see  ...  It  means 
Another  lover  of  the  world  has  died, — 
To  save  the  world,  ...  All  are  not  crucified ! 


75 


France 

Honour  against  dishonour  sets  a  lance, 

And  Heaven  defend  in  this  all  knightly  worth! 
Kingdoms  have  vanished  utterly  from  the  earth, 

So  sure  is  fate,  before  a  favourite's  glance; 

Empires  have  rotted  for  a  fool's  mischance; 

But  now  the  Republic,  capped  for  a  jester's  mirth 
In  the  day  of  peace,  rides  to  the  battle  forth, 

And  Honour  bears  upon  her  banner  the  shield  of 
France ! 

O,  for  the  broken  vineyard,  trampled  town, 

For  young  lives  ground  in  the  red  mill  of  war,  • 
Make  your  lament  and  grant  your  gift  of  tears ! 

But  never  needs  be  pity  for  renown; 
And  the  Republic  lives  for  evermore, 

Purged  in  the  fire  of  these  unquenchable  years! 


Russia 

Here  now  is  terror  herself  stricken  with  fear, 

And  Peace,  gone  mad,  raises  the  cry  for  war; 

While  men,  weary  of  hunger,  and  finding  store, 
Dole  out  starvation,  niggardly,  ear  by  ear; 
And  women,  worn  with  watching,  should  they  hear 

Their  children  weep,  know  not  the  cause  therefore, 

But  wake  to  watch  again,  and  shut  their  door 
Against  all  hope  now,  holding  nothing  dear. 
Prophets  fall  out  in  rage  to  prophesy, 

And  bitter  priests  drop  gall  upon  the  Host; 

Soldiers  betray  their  fellows  to  the  rope 
The  rack,  the  fire;  patriots  are  glad  to  die 

If  dying  they  may  but  serve  unreason  most. 

But  the  Dark  People  work  and  wait  and  hope. 


77 


Italy 

Through  the  new  land  the  ancient  virtues  throng. 
Forgetful  now  of  beauty  and  of  grace 
Men  raise  their  antique  valour  to  the  place 

From  which  it  fell,  and  of  heroic  song 

Make  deeds  heroic.     To  this  hour  belong 
No  folly  of  fear,  no  frenzy  of  disgrace : 
Proper  and  sweet  to  die, — O,  fair  of  face, 

Beauty,  no  longer  fatal,  makes  thee  strong! 

Tuscany  calls  to  Naples,  Genoa  hears; 
Sicily  answers;  Rome  has  not  forgot; 
Venice  looks  westward  over  the  vexed  sea, 

Fearless;  Milan  remembers  other  years; 

And  Piedmont  cries,  lest  the  Hun  remember  not 
Over  the  Alps  there  still  lives  Italy! 


America 

O,  if  our  hearts  be  broken,  never  say! 

We  have  loved  laughter,  we  have  loved  delight, 

We  have  spun  joy  upon  the  wheel  of  night, 
And  woven  pleasure  upon  the  loom  of  day; 
We  have  got  much  gold  out  of  our  child's-play 

To  spend  on  harlots'  progress;  for  the  right 

To  our  own  pride  we  have  been  eager  to  fight 
With  bitter  words.  .  .  .     Now  let  no  words  betray. 
We  have  loved  honour  as  well,  nor  ever  made 

Our  gain  the  purpose  of  our  liberty; 

We  have  been  moved  to  pity,  not  to  fear, 
And  met  the  scorn  of  nations,  blade  for  blade :    . 

We  loved  the  world  so !    Does  one  doubt  it?    See! 

We  never  knew  our  own  land  was  so  dear ! 


79 


She  sees  the  Departure  of  the  Ships 

Did  love  lay  a  finger  on  my  lips 

And  bid  me  be  still? 
I  saw  the  sea,  I  saw  the  great  ships, 

And  I  had  no  will 

To  speak  a  word.    Then  I  saw  him  go: 
I  never  guessed  it  would  happen  so. 

Did  grief  lay  a  charge  upon  my  eyes 

And  bid  me  not  weep? 
I  heard  the  farewells,  I  heard  the  cries, 

And  I  could  not  keep 
My  face  to  the  front!    I  could  not  stay: 
Bewildered,  tearless,  I  came  away. 

Did  life  set  a  fire  within  my  heart 

And  bid  me  not  burn? 
Far  out  toward  the  sea  the  ships  depart : 

Wherever  I  turn 

I  am  as  one  lost.    No  need  had  he 
Of  words  or  weeping;  but  what  of  me? 


80 


"Dulce  et  Decorum  .  .  ." 

Now  it  is  done.     Now  let  his  name  be  graved 

With  many  another  name 
Of  those  whom  honourable  death  has  saved 

From  life's  inevitable  shame. 
Life  would  have  been  too  strong  for  him.  He  braved 

The  lesser  assault  of  fame. 

I,  who  have  seen  him  falter  before  the  dawn 

Of  an  uncertain  day; 
Cowering  at  crossroads,  when  he  must  begone, — 

Confused,  alarmed,  astray, — 
I  know  he  must  have  laughed  at  doubts  withdrawn, 

Rejoicing  to  find  his  way. 

I,  who  have  seen  him  flush  a  falsehood,  clear 

From  an  unclouded  eye, — 
Making  the  truth  a  scarecrow  for  his  fear, 

And  saving  himself  thereby; — 
I  know  he  must  have  thrilled  to  find  how  dear, 

How  true  it  was,  to  die ! 

Not  long,  not  long.    A  minute  or  two,  perhaps, 

Clear-thinking  and  clean  and  true, 
He  saw  the  endless  length  of  time  elapse 

And  eternity  come  in  view.  .  .  . 
"At  last  I  shall  be  worthy  of  those  other  chaps !" 

.  .  .  Death  did  the  thing  to  do. 


81 


Now  he  is  dead, — lost,  yet  I  hold  him  saved! 

I  cannot  find  death  to  blame. 
All  that  he  hated,  all  that  he  feared,  he  braved 

In  the  swift  escape  from  shame.  .  .  . 
In  the  roll  of  honour  let  his  name  be  graved, 

A  most  honourable  name ! 


82 


The  Difference 

Death  makes  no  difference.    He  who  died 
Was  brave  and  generous.    To  say  less 

Were  niggardliness : 
Less  would  have  pleased  him, — such  his  pride ! 

Now  that  so  many  die  each  day 
This  golden-hearted  boy  would  want 

His  praises  scant. 
"Ah,  but  the  others!"  he  would  say. 

But  yesterday  I  got  the  news : 
The  boy  is  dead.    How  can  it  be 

That  here  for  me 
There  is  no  way  that  I  may  use 

To  question  death?    For,  nothing  said 
Of  this  great  lad  were  niggardliness; 

And  words  are  less! 
Death  makes  no  difference, — to  the  dead. 


1917—1920 

"A  fellow's  got  to  be  honest-to-God, 

And  decent,  I  guess; 
And  have  the  nerve  to  shoot  his  wad, — 

Like  a  man.  .  .  .  No  less.  .^:,  - 

"It's  fifty-fifty,— the  chance  is  bad : 

I  wouldn't  like  that ! 
With  Mother  moping  about,  and  Dad 

Wearing  crape  on  his  hat.  .  .  ." 

The  car  tore  up  the  dusty  road 

Between  fence  and  fence, 
Shaking  off  town  like  a  heavy  load 

From  our  confidence; 

The  moon  hung  low  on  the  Cleveland  Tower, 

Sharp-edged  as  night  came: 
Then  dropped  into  sunset,  like  a  flower 

Fallen  into  a  flame ; 

A  cool  wind  ran  down  from  the  hill 

And  ruffled  the  lake.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  answer, — my  heart  was  still 

For  his  honest  sake. 

"And  a  fellow  can't  be  sure,  you  know, 

What  it's  all  about : 
He's  got  to  get  ready  to  go, — and  go! — 

Without  finding  out.  .  ." 


The  car  swung  round  by  the  Kingston  bridge, 

Wild,  blatantly  loud : 
Above  the  stream  rose  the  quarried  ridge 

Like  a  pillar  of  cloud. 

"A  fellow  might  hate  to  go,  like  Hell  !— 

And  never  let  on : 
For  instance,  this!    It's  like  breaking  a  spell, — 

I  wish  I  were  gone !" 

We  struck  a  road  that  ran  due  north : 

One  cloud  entire 
Flared  with  the  sunset  and  went  forth 

Like  a  pillar  of  fire. 

"And  a  fellow  can't  say  much.     It's  not 

The  he-thing  to  do; 
But  somehow  or  other  to-night  I've  got 

To  bicker  with  you.  ... 

"Just  a  little.    It's  here,  tied  up  in  my  chest, 

And  its  got  to  come  out : 
I  don't  like  this  girl-stuff.     Most  of  the  rest 

Go  loving  about.  .  .  . 

"I  hate  to  think  of  the  things  there'll  be, 

Like  crew  and  football 
And  dances  and  parties  and  things, — and  me 

Not  in  it  at  all! 


"And  I  have  n't  done  half  I  ought  to,  here: 

When  I  think  of  it,— Lord!' 
Of  Latin  and  Math,  it  seems  so  queer 

How  I  used  to  be  bored ! 

'There's    the    fellows,    of    course, — but   they'll    be 
there ! 

Believe  me,  with  gongs! 
And  the  best  ones  sort  o'  get  devil-may-care, — 

It  somehow  belongs. 

"I've  tried  to  be  honest.    I  think  I  know 

Myself  pretty  well; 
And  perhaps  I  really  don't  want  to  go ! 

Don't  it  beat  Hell? 

"That's  just  with  myself  alone.    I  ain't 

Quite  a  hero  yet. 
And  I  never  wanted  to  be  a  saint, — 

And  I  might  forget! 

"But  of  course  I'm  going.    The  rest  of  the  crowd 

Have  all  of  them  signed : 
But  nobody  says — at  least  not  aloud — 

What's  in  his  mind! 

"And,  well, — I  want  to  see  what  it's  like! 

To  go  for  some  town 
While  the  shells  fly  round  and  the  bullets  strike, 

And  the  planes  go  down.  ... 

86 


"But  most, — how  could  you  live,  if  the  Hun 

Got  away  with  this  stuff? 
It  would  make  all  the  splendid  things  we've  done 

Seem  like  nothing  but  bluff.  .  .  . 

"That's  it !    That's  really  the  final  test : 

Those  old  boys  were  right, — 
Washington  and  Lincoln  and  the  rest, — 

It's  better  to  fight, — 

"And  die, — than  lose  the  right  to  these!" 

We  had  come  back  again, 
And  the  towers  leaped  up  above  the  trees 

Beyond  Bayard  Lane. 

The  lights  were  dim  in  the  streets, — the  stars 

Prophetically  bright; 
He  laughed, — "I  wonder  if  one  of  'em  's  Mars ! 

That  red  one!  ...  Good-night!" 

I  shall  not  go  by  the  Kingston  way : 

I  shall  turn,  instead, 
To  the  Lawrenceville  road  for  my  walk  to-day 

With  him, — who  is  dead. 


On  a  Certain  American  Soldier 
(W.  J.  D.) 

What  Irish  field 

Rose  to  so  great  a  yield? 

Leinster  nor  Connaught  grew  such  grain  before, 

Nor  Munster  held  such  harvest  in  her  store ! 

Not  the  Red  Branch 

Bragged  of  a  soul  more  staunch ; 

Nor  Brian,  crowned  in  Tara,  ever  gave 

Heroic  spoils  of  war  to  one  more  brave ! 

Boyne  Water,  red, 

Among  the  vanquished  dead 

Swept  no  such  lover  of  life;  nor  the  employ 

Of  wilder  geese  predestined  Fontenoy ! 

Atlantic  flood 

Tempered  the  fiery  blood; 

And  western  winds,  like  mighty  hammers,  wrought, 

Compounding  faith  with  courage  and  clear  thought. 

America  sent 

To  France  this  compliment : 

"Take  of  my  best  and  bravest :  let  thy  star 

Of  honour  guide  him:  such  my  children  are.  .  .    !" 


88 


No  subject  he 

For  foreign  minstrelsy: 

No  harp  in  Tara  shall  prolong  his  praise; 

Nor  wayside  poet  sing  his  length  of  days. 

Rather  shall  he 

Unsung,  unhonoured  be: 

Till  some  new  bard,  for  such  high  matter  fit, 

For  his  own  folk  shall  make  a  psalm  of  it! 

Fame  shall  enroll 

No  more  courageous  soul; 

Quebec  and  Eutaw  Springs  and  Monterey 

And  Gettysburg  rehallowed  were  that  day. 

Death  could  not  claim 

The  meed  of  such  a  name: 

But  spirits,  whom  death  encumbered,  rise  to  tell 

What  one  man  did  that  day  at  Saint  Mihiel.  .  .  . 

France  has  restored 

Our  gift,  as  our  reward; 

Ours  is  the  need!    Of  such  we  can  but  lend! 

And  Irish  folk  were  wedded  to  this  end! 


Armistice 

Men  may  forget  the  slaughter  that  was  done, — 

Forget  the  slain,  and,  after  all,  forgive, 
For,  in  the  face  of  fortunes  to  be  won, 

Anger  is  brief,  and  grief  is  fugitive; 
Women  may  soon  forswear  the  tears  they  shed, 

Deny  the  silent  anguish  of  farewell, — 
Schooling  their  easy  lips  to  smile,  instead, 

At  other  stories  of  what  once  bef el ; 
City  may  vie  with  city,  race  with  race, 

To  cover  up  the  ashes  of  this  wrath; 
And  God  himself  come  down  from  His  high  place 

To  make  ripe  grain  the  battle's  aftermath; 
But  from  my  dust  shall  grief  be  bred  anew, 
And  anger  thrive.    /  shall  remember  you 


90 


Ill 

The  Joke 

Ranald  of  the  Islands,  Kedzie  of  the  Kyle, 

Stuart  of  the  royal  line, — 

Something  in  a  bonnet  off,  something  in  a  smile 
Quaffed  in  a  cup  of  wine, — 
(Then  the  pretty  Shilladay 
On  an  Irish  holiday 

Rose  to  be  kin  of  mine.) 

Hilton  of  the  Midlands,  Forman  of  the  Fens, 

Dickson  out  of  County  Down, — 
Laughter,  for  the  women's  share, — loving,  for  the 

men's, — 

King's  blood  running  to  clown.  . 
(Then  a  little  Berkshire  lass 
With  her  luck  and  a  looking-glass 
Came  up  to  London  town.) 

Martyrs  for  the  Covenant,  martyrs  for  the  Crown, 

Preaching  conventicle  or  Mass; 
Dying  on  the  hill-sides,  dancing  in  the  town, — 
So  did  the  centuries  pass : 

( Seeing  right  or  wrong  in  it, — 
Prayer  or  fight  or  song  in  it, — 
Bible,  or  gun,  or  glass!) 


Then  they  struck  it  westward,  sails  upon  the  sea, — 

Some  fetching  psalms  to  sing; 
Some  because  the  honour  of  their  company 
Was  not  requested  by  the  King! 
(Others,  of  a  harder  lot, 
Steerage,  a  Cunarder  brought, — 
Shamrock  seed  on  the  wing!) 

Some  of  them  were  gentlemen,  some  of  them  were 

sots, 

Some  of  them  were  middling  folk, — 
Mouldering  now  in  churches,  or  in  weedy  plots 
Low  under  willow  and  oak.  .  .  v 
( Though  they  had  no  guess  of  me, 
They  have  made  the  mess  of  me, — 
Never  laughing  at  the  Joke!) 


92 


An  old  Song  of  Spring 

O,  ye  who  love  me  so, 
The  same  glad  hours    < 

Do  I  come  bringing 
That  laughed  a  year  ago, — 
The  same  white  flowers, 
The  same  clear  singing. 

Robin  shall  now  begin 
His  courting  tune 

And  sing  it  sweetly, 
That  he  his  love  may  win 
Ere  cometh  June 

That  cometh  fleetly.  .  . 

The  water-sprites  shall  play 
In  pond  and  creek 

With  song  and  laughter,- 
Dive  madly  in  the  spray 
To  hide  and  seek 

And  follow  after.  .  .  . 

Now  violets  shall  gleam 
Across  the  grass 

Fair-faced  and  slender.  . 
For  lads  to  pick,  and  dream 
Each  of  his  lass, 

And  love  grow  tender.  . 

93 


Skies  shall  be  clear  at  dawn, 
And  warm  at  noon; 

Night  shall  be  tragic 
For  little  stars,  withdrawn 
While  the  wise  moon 
Makes  fuller  magic. 

Ye  who  have  loved  me  so ! 
The  same  frail  hours 
Do  I  come  bringing 
That  died  so  long  ago! 
The  same  blue  flowers, 
The  same  clear  singing. 


94 


Inconstancy 

I  sighed  as  the  soul  of  April  fled, 

And  a  tear  on  my  cheek 
Told  of  the  love  I  had  borne  the  dead; 
And  I  signed  the  cross  and  bowed  my  head 

And  was  sad  for  a  week. 

With  a  carol  and  catch  the  May  came  in, — 

Such  a  wonderful  way! 
That  I  solemnly  chucked  her  under  the  chin, 
And  tuned  me  the  strings  of  my  violin, — 

And  was  glad  for  a  day. 


95 


Bob  White 

At  dawn  when  first  the  fluttering  gleam 

Of  the  new  sun  announced  the  day, 
There  reached  me,  through  a  broken  dream, 
This  oft-repeated  lay : 
(Too  sweet  for  cry, 
Too  brief  for  song, 
'T  was  borne  along 
The  reddening  sky) 

Bob  White!  " 
Daylight,  Bob  White! 
Daylight! 

When  evening  with  the  fading  glow 
Of  setting  sun  foretold  the  night, 
Another  song  came,  soft  and  low, 
Across  the  dying  light : 
(Too  sweet  for  cry, 
Too  brief  for  song, 
'T  was  but  a  long 
Contented  sigh) 
Bob  White! 

Good-night,  Bob  White! 
Good-night! 


To  an  Alchemist 

(1500) 

No  ugly  trifle  do  I  bring 
To  beg  thee  turn  to  gold, 

But  that  far  dearer,  priceless  thing 
Of  which  was  Adam  told.  . 

The  love  of  her  within  my  heart 
Seems  purest  gold  to  me, 

Yet  much  I  fear  lest  still  a  part 
Of  baser  metal  be. 

Do  thou  this  treasure  then  behold, 
And  search  with  utmost  care, 

If  there  be  dross  amidst  the  gold 
Which  I  have  hidden  there; 

And  if  thou  find  an  evil  thing 
I  pray  thee  then  to  make 

Thy  crucible  my  harrowing. 
Amen.    For  Jesu's  sake. 


97 


The  Old  Sailboat 

Dismasted,  rudderless,  sides  agape, 
She  lies  upon  the  beach,  a  wreck, — 
She  that  was  wont,  a  lovely  shape, 
To  sail  with  beauty  on  her  deck. 

Beneath  the  moon,  before  the  wind 
She  sped,  and  floods  of  silvery  speech 
Poured  over  her;  yet  now  I  find 
Only  the  hulk  upon  the  beach.  .  . 

For  they  are  gone,  the  house  is  gone; 
Beauty  has  faded,  lips  are  still  : 
The  old  boat  on  the  beach  alone 
Lies  in  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 


On  an  Uncertain  Day  in  Winter 

O  purposeless  dull  day ! — Gray  Spring 
Astray  in  wintry  woods; 
Or  silvery  Autumn  borne  on  the  black  wing 
Of  laggard  lifeless  clouds! 

0  motionless  grim  cloud !   Proud  still 
To  fill  a  wintry  sky; 

Uncertain,  though,  to  break  upon  the  hill 
Or  blow  a  hurricane  by ! 

Bereft  of  passion  and  inert, — 

Yet  shall  the  torrents  come 

And  tempests  blow.    O  happy  day,  thou  wert 

But  with  thy  purpose  dumb ! 

(And  that  my  aimless  life  might  break 
Even  in  passion  now!) 
For  lo,  the  winter  has  come  back  to  take 
Toll  of  the  leafless  bough; 

To  strike  against  the  hill  in  sleet 
And  beat  the  world  with  rain: 

1  see  Gray  Spring  on  silent  feet  retreat 
Down  the  far  southern  plain; 

The  Autumn  of  the  clouds  is  torn 

By  passionate  true  wind; — 

Would  that  such  purpose  might  be  lifted,  borne 

Into  my  heart  and  mind ! 

99 


The  Ecstatic  Lover 

Thine  eyes  were  made  for  Beauty's  eyes  to  see 
Therein  the  state  to  which  she  might  attain ; 
Thy  lips  were  made  for  song,  that  Song  might  be 
Fain  of  perfection,  knowing  that  less  were  vain; 
Thy  body  was  made  for  grace,  that  Grace  might 

come 

To  learn  of  thee  how  grace  may  gain  in  skill; 
Thy  mind  was  made  for  worth,  lest  Worth  be  dumb 
Beyond  thy  silence,  mute  beyond  thy  will; 
Thy  youth  was  made  for  Youth,  to  be  the  door 
That  Age  should  pass  through  toward  eternal  youth ; 
Thy  love  was  made  for  Love,  that  evermore 
Love  might  be  one  with  constancy  and  truth: 
Life,  growing  old,  shall  beg  thy  life  for  breath, 
And  Death  of  thee  shall  learn  the  sting  of  death! 


100 


The  Cynical  Lover 

You  will  remember  me  in  curious  ways 

When  I  am  dead.    Turning  a  letter  down 

Upon  your  desk  you  will  recall  a  phrase 

I  used  once;  or,  in  choosing  a  new  gown 

Of  a  gay  pattern,  you  will  suddenly  turn 

Saying,  "I  never  could  endure  that  shade!"; 

And  clerks  will  wonder  why  your  cheek  should  burn 

So  swiftly  red.    And  sometimes,  I'm  afraid, 

When  your  new  lover  praises  you,  his  eyes 

May  show  a  light  like  mine,  and  if  you  wed 

I  shall  be  serpent  in  your  paradise, — 

Sharing  incontinent  in  the  bridal-bed. 

Living  I  should  be  sorry  to  vex  you  so: 

The  chance  is,  being  dead  I  shall  not  know. 


101 


The  Happy  Bachelor 

I  am  a  fool  and  a  bachelor, 
I  have  loved  them  all  my  life; 

But  I  could  never  settle  down 
And  pick  one  for  a  wife.  .  . 

I  met  a  man  with  a  wife  of  his  own, 
A  wife  and  children  dear; 

As  I  went  that  day  on  my  lonely  way 
I  thought  that  I  could  hear: 

"O,  he  is  a  fool  and  a  bachelor, 
Would  sweeten  them  to  his  taste; 

Now  the  long  run  of  his  day  is  done, 
And  his  youth  has  gone  to  waste!" 

.  .  .  There  was  a  girl  up-country  .  . 

But  she's  been  dead  for  years !  .  >  . 
She  looked  for  love  with  open  eyes, 

And  listened  with  eager  ears.  .  . 

I  knew  a  girl  from  the  Cabins, 
Rose-white  and  blue  and  gold : 

She  teaches  her  children  now  to  pray, 
And  her  face  is  growing  old.  . 


102 


There  was  one  with  an  eye  for  the  soldiers, 

And  scorned  a  quiet  life.  .  . 
God  knows  she's  had  her  trouble  enough 

Since  she  was  a  soldier's  wife.  . 

One  was  a  tall  dark  lady.  .  .  . 

Let  the  years  be  many  or  few 
That  are  due  me  yet,  I  shall  never  forget.  .  . 

O,  tall  and  dark  were  you ! 

I  am  a  fool  and  a  bachelor, 

I  have  loved  them  all  my  life.  .  .  . 

But  after  that  could  I  settle  down 
And  take  one  for  a  wife? 

I  met  a  man  with  a  wife  of  his  own, 

A  wife  and  children  dear: 
As  I  went  that  day  on  my  lonely  way 

I  thought  that  I  could  hear : 

"O !  he  is  a  fool  and  a  bachelor ! 

Would  sweeten  them  to  his  taste !" 

No:  but  I'd  break  my  heart  again, 

And  let  my  youth  go  waste.  .  . 


103 


Song  for  Gay  Music 

Never  was  my  heart  awake, — 

Never  for  a  fancy's  sake 

Would  I  play  at  give  and  take; 

Once  upon  a  ship  at  sea 

I  heard  a  bell  sound  mournfully.  .  . 

Nearer  life  came  not  to  me. 

Of  my  youth  I  took  no  toll : 

Got  no  usury  for  my  soul, — 

Now  heart-bankrupt  and  heart-whole: 

Once  through  frosty  window-glass 

I  watched  the  storms  of  winter  pass.  . 

Till  the  green  came  to  the  grass. 

For  my  age  a  fire  unlit— 

Fallow  feeling,  mouldy  wit, 

Empty  spaces  infinite; 

Once  I  watched  a  summer  go, 

Days  like  ten-pins  in  a  row, — 

Till  the  hills  were  streaked  with  snow. 

Would  that  for  a  whimsy's  sake 
I  could  get  my  heart  to  break ! 


104 


In  August 

There  may  have  been  a  time, 

In  March  or  May 

Or  last  September, 
When  I  could  make  a  rhyme 

At  least  half -gay 

I  don't  remember. 

Let  me  forget  it :  call : 

"Over  and  done, 

June  and  December.  .  ." 
Was  there  no  joy  at  all  ?  .  .  . 

Yes, — there  was  one 

I  don't  remember! 


105 


Inhibition 

I  cannot  read  to-night, — 

Little  wild  fancies  haunt  me.  . 
Who  are  they  in  the  dim  light 

Crying  they  want  me? 
Ere  I  can  rise  to  go 

Swiftly  to  find  them, 
Vanish  they  all,  and  throw 

Laughter  behind  them.  .  . 

I  cannot  think  to-night, — 

Little  sad  memories  flout  me : 
Where  did  she  in  her  far  flight 

Fare  to  without  me? 
Over  what  sea  she  went, 

What  welcome  met  her.  .  .  . 
I  have  been  long  content 

So  to  forget  her! 

I  cannot  sleep  to-night, — 

Little  fair  dreams  prevent  me; 
Why  come  they,  exquisite,  white, 

Now  to  torment  me? 
Why  should  the  season  stir 

Me  to  old  sorrow? 
I  have  forgotten  her 

After  to-morrow! 


1 06 


In  the  Lanes 

In  the  lanes  round  Milnwood 

In  the  new  spring  weather 
I  caught  up  with  happiness, 

And  we  walked  together; 
And  we  walked  together 

Half  an  April  day; 
Flying  clouds  made  the  weather 

By  the  flowery  way. 

In  the  lanes  round  Milnwood 

In  the  summer  weather 
I  caught  up  with  faithlessness, 

And  we  walked  together; 
And  we  walked  together 

Half  an  August  night; 
Heavy  clouds  made  the  weather, 

Hiding  the  starlight. 

In  the  lanes  round  Milnwood 

In  whatever  weather 
Now  I  meet  with  loneliness, 

And  we  walk  together; 
And  we  walk  together, 

Silent  all  the  way, 
Minding  not  of  the  weather, 

Nor  of  night  or  day ! 


107 


"Out  of  What  Earth  and  Air' 

Out  of  what  earth  and  air 

Can  I  fashion  you? 
For  memory  has  no  art 
To  bring  back  more  than  part 

Of  the  one  I  knew.  .  .  " 

And  now  I  need  you,  all, 

As  in  happier  days; 
Not  just  a  tone,  a  touch, 
Too  little  or  too  much 

Of  your  words  and  ways.  r  .  -1 

God  thought  you,  and  his  thought 

Was  our  happiness : 
A  creature  of  His  mind 
Made  manifest!  .  .  .  and,  blind, 

We  have  deemed  you  less.  . 

And  so  you  passed  at  length 

To  a  different  state  : 
He  thought  of  you  elsewhere : 
And  my  thought,  for  all  my  care, 

Cannot  recreate! 


108 


Only  a  touch,  a  tone, 

And  the  vision  fades; 
To-night  what  secret  star 
Can  tell  me  what  you  are? 
.  .  Shade  among  shades! 

In  the  deep  skies,  what  Deep 
Has  encompassed  you? 

Less  happy  if  you  be, 

Then  better,  Deity 

Should  forget  you  .  .  .  too! 


109 


The  Quarry 

Love,  if  you  be  true  love,  save  you  while  you  may: 
The  terrible  hounds  of   Pride  are  on  your  scent 

to-day ; 

Run  fleet  arid  faint  not, — take  no  time  for  breath : 
Terrible  Pride  herself  doth  ride,  to  come  in  at  the 

death. 

Love,  if  you  be  fond  love,  speed  your  flight  away : 

The  ruthless  hawks  of  Greed  are  in  pursuit  to-day ; 

Beak  and  claw  are  ready;  they  spare  not  weary 
wing : 

Ruthless  Greed  herself  doth  lead  in  such  a  flutter- 
ing. 

Love,  if  you  be  pure  love,  fold  your  heart  and  pray: 

The  treacherous  mind  of  Lust  hath  set  a  snare  to- 
day; 

Wary  walk  and  whisper;  falter  not  nor  cry.  .  .  . 

God  knows  what  will  come  of  it  if  God  should  pass 
you  by. 


no 


Finality 

Into  the  city  of  silence  I  came  with  a  song : 
I  shall  forget  now  all  sorrow,  I  cried,  and  all  wrong ; 
I  shall  forget  now  all  dread, — the  length  of  the  night, 
The  passing  of  love,  and  the  terrible  end  of  de- 
light. .  . 

1  shall  remember  but  joy :  the  coming  of  dawn, 
The  breath  of  the  wind  in  the  boughs  when  Winter 

has  gone; 
The  kiss  of  the  girl  of  my  heart  when  I  thought 

she  was  true; 
The  hand  of  my  friend,  and  the  wine,  and  the  talk 

of  us  two.  .  .  . 

There  came  to  me  then  the  remonstrant  host  of  the 

dead. 
You  have  broken  our  rest;  be  silent,  or  go!  they 

said; 
We  had  forgotten  all  things  till  the  noise  of  your 

song 
Awoke  us  to  memory  again  and  the  sense  of  our 

wrong. 


in 


Here  in  the  city  of  silence,  if  you  would  forget, 
You  needs  must  forget  all  things,  and  feel  no  regret ; 
Your  girl  played  you  false, — and  what  matter  her 

lips  were  warm? 
Day  that  came  to  you  fair  went  out  black  with  a 

storm.  . 

Spring  had  followed  on  winter,  but  winter  once 
more 

Fell  on  the  heart  of  the  earth  and  made  you  heart- 
sore.  .  . 

Death  sprang  up  by  night  between  wine  and  your 
friend.  .  . 

Love  died  at  last,  and  delight  had  a  terrible  end ! 

Hush  and  forget, — for  it  gains  you  nothing  to  rave : 
Quiet  and  rest  may  be  had  in  the  depth  of  the  grave ; 
Hush  and  forget.  .  .  One  by  one  they  were  silent 

and  crept 
Into  the  graves.  .  .  So  I  killed  all  remembrance.  . 

and  slept. 


112 


Advice 

Seek  not  to  number  friend  and  friend, 
Nor  let  their  names  by  rote  be  said, 
Lest  ere  thou  comest  to  the  end 
One  whom  thou  lovest  most  be  dead! 

I  sat  me  down  to  muse,  and  count 
Those  whom  the  gods  had  granted  me : 
Writing  his  name,  I  paused :  the  fount 
Of  trust  and  fellowship  was  he.  .  . 

My  heart  rose  up :    Thank  God !    I  said ; 
Then  wrote  a  dozen  names  beside.  . 
Ere  I  was  done  and  gone  to  bed 
They  brought  me  word  that  he  had  died. 

I  say  their  names,  but  only  one 
Was  he,  my  friend!    Ah,  nevermore 
The  light  of  bright- returning  sun 
Shall  lead  my  footsteps  to  his  door! 


The  Visitor 

The  door  is  closed,  yet  in  you  come ; 
The  clock  strikes  late,  you  do  not  go; 
I  shut  my  eyes,  my  lips  are  dumb, — 
I  have  no  charity  to  show.  .  ''„'  '5 

My  eyes  are  shut,  but  you  I  see ; 
My  lips  are  dumb,  with  you  I  speak ; 
My  heart  is  yours  for  charity. 
Go,  go,  now,  for  my  soul  is  weak 

With  watching,  and  I  fain  would  sleep ! 
My  bed  is  here,  my  prayers  are  said. 
And  must  I  still  at  midnight  keep 
This  long  communion  with  the  dead? 

Nay!     Sleeping,  I  should  dream  of  you; 
Should  see  the  gladness  in  your  face; 
Should  old  acknowledgments  renew 
And  hold  you  in  the  old  embrace.  .  .. 

Then  stay,  friend!  there  is  much  to  say.  . 
At  best  I  can  but  think  and  rhyme 
Of  you,  who  died  but  yesterday 
And  have  been  dead  so  long  a  time! 


114 


The  Eternal  Hope 

0  forthright  friend, 

1  wish  you  well 
World  without  end. 
You  broke  the  spell 
Of  grief:  farewell! 

Grief  had  undone 
Me  utterly : 

They  died,  each  one, — 
Battle  and  sea 
Unfriended  me. 

Only  high  pride 
Maintained  me  whole ; 
My  lips  denied 
The  clamorous  dole 
That  filled  my  soul. 

Indifferent 
What  fate  designed, 
No  new  content 
Came  to  my  mind : 
My  life  was  blind. 


My  grief  could  brook 
No  condolence, — 
Sad  by  the  book, — 
Remote,  intense, 
Courting  offense. 

Till,  presently, — you! 
They  were  no  less 
My  own,  and  true ; 
But  you  could  bless 
My  loneliness.  .  . 

Laughter  again 
Compelled  me;  earth 
Grew  starry  then; 
Suns  proved  the  worth 
Of  natural  mirth. 

Midnight  would  fold 
Darkly  to  hear 
The  things  we  told 
Ear  unto  ear, 
Ribald,  severe. 

Day  made  the  sun 
Our  counsellor: 
Wisdom  would  run 
To  fetch  us  more 
Out  of  his  store. 


116 


Desperate  of  bound 
Our  fancies  ran 
The  world  around.  .  . 
Free,  without  ban, 
Friendship  began. 

Nothing  untold, 
Nothing  withdrawn : 
Faith,  growing  bold, 
Held  us  till  dawn 
Tinctured  the  lawn. 

Praise,  promise,  blame, 
Lay  beyond  reach; 
Silences  came 
Often  to  teach 
And  quicken  speech. 

Peculiar  place 
Of  trust  was  yours : 
Yours  was  the  grace 
Which  truth  ensures, 
And  ever  endures. 

Of  all  man's  dust 
Was  this  revealed : 
Trust  follows  trust 
In  any  field, 
Fair,  unconcealed.  .  .  . 


117 


Now  by  the  shore 
Your  tall  ship  stays, 
Calling  once  more 
To  your  old  ways. 
Now  end  our  days! 

They  shall  not.     Far 
Your  star  may  guide; 
My  destinies  are 
Dim,  undescried; 
But  you  abide. 

Some  day,  where  men 
Forgather,  we 
Shall  turn  again 
Unconsciously, 
And  hear,  and  see. 

Friend,  as  we  part 
I  need  not  tell 
How  all  my  heart 
Wishes  you  well : 
Good-bye !    Farewell ! 


118 


IV 

The  Daughter  of  Herodias 

Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance! 

You  shall  have  a  prophet's  head  for  your  reward, 

perchance, — 

Head  of  John  the  Baptist,  rolling  on  a  tray, 
Staring  eye  and  sunken  jaw,  to  catch  and  cart  away ! 
.....  Nay,  I  want  no  prophet's  head, 
Nor  any  prophet,  live  or  dead; 
Bid  me  dance  and  I  will  dance, — give  me  but  your 

soul  instead! 
Dance  then,  dance!  and  the  soul  you  want 

entrance ! 
Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance ! 

Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance! 

You  shall  have  a  saint's  head.  ...  Do  not  look 

askance ! 

Head  of  Simon  Peter,  the  traitor  and  the  fighter, 
His  would  be  a  fine  head,  with  halo  and  with  mitre ! 

Nay,  I  want  no  pale  saint, 

Arm  rash,  heart  faint, 

Give  me  but  your  soul,  My  Lord,  and  I  will  dance 

without  restraint! 
Dance,  then,  dance!     My  soul  will  take  a 

chance, 
Daughter  of  Herodias!    Dance,  dance! 


119 


.V .  .  Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance! 
You  shall  have  a  king's  head,  stuck  upon  a  lance : 
Saul,  King  of  Jewry,  anointed  of  the  Lord, 
Napoleon,    with   the   world's   blood    red   upon   his 

sword ! 

.  .  .  .  .  Nay,  I  want  no  crown  of  gold, 
Nor  king  of  any  story  told, — 
Just  your  soul  shall  be  my  bargain,  as  such  things 

are  bought  and  sold ! 
Dance,  then,  dance !    May  the  price  of  souls 

advance, 
Daughter  of  Herodias!    Dance,  dance! 

Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance! 

You  shall  have  a  poet's  head,  brimming  with  ro- 
mance,— 

Lay  his  fair  world  waste  at  will,  kill  the  loves  and 
graces, 

And  shout  the  ruin  you  have  made  aloud  in  public 
places ! 

.  *  .  .  .  Nay,  no  poet!     He  were  game 

For  a  common  woman's  shame; 

You're  the  poet,  .saint,  and  prophet,  you're  the  king 
I  want  to  tame! 

Dance  then,  dance!  such  a  grace  the  devil 

grants, 

Daughter  of  Herodias!    Dance,  dance! 


120 


Daughter  of  Herodias,  dance,  dance! 
Take  the  heads  of  all  the  fools  in  Italy  and  France, 
All  the  fools  in  England,  in  Portugal  and  Spain, 
Prussian    fool   and    Russian    fool,    Hollander   and 

Dane ! 

Nay,  but  just  one  motley  fool, 

Heaven's  outcast,  devil's  tool, — 

Head  and  soul,  your  head  and  soul,  for  this  I  went 

to  dancing-school! 
.  .  .  .  .  Dance!     Then   dance!     Here's   to   Death 

and  .  .  .  Dalliance! 
Daughter  of  Herodias !    Dance!    Dance! 


121 


Black  Dog  Care 

Ho,  shuffle  along  with  shout  and  song 

Into  the  starless  night, 
With  a  wary  eye  on  the  passer  by 

And  the  corners  all  in  sight, 
Lest  unaware  the  Black  Dog,  Care, 

Come  up  behind  and  bite ! 

You  have  spent  your  tin  on  the  landlord's  bin : 

At  the  tables  long  and  white 
Was  a  merry  gang  whose  laughter  rang 

To  the  jests  you  made  to-night; 
But  yet,  beware,  lest  the  Black  Dog,  Care, 

Come  up  behind  and  bite ! 

You  have  made  your  jest  of  life's  poor  best, — 

God's  faith  and  Love's  delight; 
You  have  turned  your  joke  on  hearts  that  broke. 

(Like  your  mother's,  in  the  night) 
O  watch,  lest  Care,  in  the  gas-light's  glare, 

Come  up  behind  and  bite! 

Run,  run,  I  say,  o'er  the  world  away.  .  . 

You  have  far  to  go  to-night, 
And  jest  and  song  may  follow  along 

But  this  at  least  is  right : 
That  Black  Dog,  Care,  some  time,  some  where, 

Shall  come  behind  and  bite! 


122 


The  Merry  Life 

O,  life  is  drink-and-bottoms-up, 

And  drink  once  more,  my  Hearty; 
The  end  be  but  another  cup 
At  such  another  party ! 

But  0,  one  happy  night  gone  by! 
What  came  of  them,  I  wonder? 
Good  fellows  all,  we  can  but  die, 
And  down  zve  go,  and  under. 

O,  faith  is  whine-and-make-believe, 

And  whine  again,  my.  Jocky ! 
Let  parsons  pule  and  mothers  grieve, — 
The  road  to  Heaven  is  rocky: 
But  0,  it's  gone  for  ever  by: 

What  was  it  worth,  I  wonder? 
Time  was  when  God  was  in  the  sky, 
And  I  zvas  happy  under. 

O,  love  is  kiss-and-let-me-go, 

And  kiss  again,  my  Beauty! 
On  starry  nights  when  winds  are  low, 
Such  loving  is  but  duty: 
But  0,  one  starry  night  gone  by! 
What  came  of  her,  I  wonder? 
The  earth  is  warm,  the  grasses  high,- 
May  she  sleep  soundly  under! 


123 


O,  death  is  dig-and-chuck-me-in, 

And  read  the  prayer-book  after; 
And  never  more  the  love  and  gin, 
And  never  more  the  laughter! 
But,  O,  if  I  should  wake  and  cry 

Would  any  hear,  I  wonder? 
Would  death  relent  and  let  me  by,- 
Or  drag  me  deeper  under? 


124 


Elemental 

Of  moist  and  dry,  of  hot  and  cold, 
Lo,  Thou  hast  made  us  in  Thy  mould: 
As  Thou  hast  willed  it,  we  must  live; 
As  Thou  gavest  us,  so  we  give. 

Thus,  hot  and  cold,  we  turn  to  Thee 
With  question  of  infinity: 
But,  measuring  stars  from  zone  to  zone, 
Are  nothing  nearer  to  Thy  throne. 

Thus,  moist  and  dry,  we  ponder  here, 
Computing  hours  from  year  to  year; 
But,  reaching  Time's  extreme  degree, 
Add  nothing  to  eternity. 

Though  Thou  the  weight  of  Time  withhold, 
Eternity  has  made  us  old: 
Though  Thou  hast  given  us  vision,  we 
Grow  blind  before  infinity. 

Of  hot  and  cold,  of  moist  and  dry, 
Thou  hast  devised  us,  and  we  die : 
Darkly  we  hope  that  this  our  breath 
Is  not  the  whole  of  Life  and  Death! 


125 


The  Nightmare 

I  went  alone  through  lands  unknown, 
Companionless,  and  overhead 
Were  sallow  skies,  all  tempest-blown, 
While  in  the  fields  the  corn  lay  dead.  . 

The  grain  lay  dead,  but  growing  still 
In  beauty  and  grace  ...  I  cannot  say 
How  it  might  be,  such  marvels  fill 
My  memories  of  that  curious  way.  . 

For  always  in  the  sallow  skies 
The  sun  was  red,  and  shadows  fell 
From  stars  and  moon;  but  weather-wise 
I  was,  and  thought  it  very  well.  .  -,  .< 

The  hills  were  low,  and  towering  high 
Dead  flowers  were  blossoming  in  the  night; 
And  rivers  silently  ran  by 
Under  great  forests,  ghastly  white.  . 5- 

Through  fair  familiar  towns  I  passed; 
By  bridges  crossed  a  flowery  bank 
An  hundred  times;  and  faces,  massed 
In  open  windows,  rank  on  rank, 


126 


Grinned  at  me  hopelessly  ...  I  knew 
Each  one,  the  living  and  the  dead : 
And  one  I  loved  stood  forth,  and  drew 
Her  face  awry,  and  laughed  and  fled.  .  . 

Then  to  the  journey's  end  I  came; 
Of  phantoms  there  I  saw  but  one, 
Monstrous,  in  whose  mad  eyes  the  flame 
Of  murder  blazed.     .  .  I  could  not  run. 

Nor  move  my  hand,  nor  cry  for  aid.  . 
I  saw  the  long  sharp  sabre  gleam: 
I  could  not  wait  the  stroke  he  made : 
I  never  wakened  from  the  dream. 


127 


Spring  Song 

They  buried  me  here  by  my  dear.     In  spring 

They  buried  me  here, — in  spring! 
And  I  felt  the  ice  melt  in  my  heart,  and  the  sting 
Of  the  sap  like  a  flood  in  my  blood;  and  the  ring 
Of  the  roots  lusty  shoots  came  to  startle  me,  still 
In  my  bed  with  the  dead ;  but  the  worms  did  me  ill 

As  they  wound  round  the  Thing 

That  was  I, — in  spring 
When  they  buried  me  here, — in  spring! 

They  buried  me  here  by  my  dear.     In  spring 

They  buried  me  here, — in  spring! 
And  I  heard  every  bird  that  was  mating,  wide-wing 
On  the  delicate  breeze ;  and  the  trees  were  aswing 
As  the  melody  fell  on  the  blossoming  boughs; 
And  the  words  of  the  birds  were,  "How  foolish  to 
house 

In  a  grave, — like  the  Thing 

That  was  he!"    In  spring 
When  they  buried  me  here, — in  spring! 


128 


They  buried  me  here  by  my  dear.     In  spring 

They  buried  me  here, — in  spring! 
But  my  dear  couldn't  hear  the  sap  flow,  the  birds 

sing, 
Nor  the  worms  as  they  wound  me  around,  nor  could 

fling 

Me  a  sign  she  was  mine  in  her  death ;  for  the  lid 
Of  her  coffin  was  off,  and  she  could  not  keep  hid 

What  she  was, — just  a  Thing 

Worse  than  I, — in  spring 
When  they  buried  me  here, — in  spring. 


129 


Nox  Irae 

Will  not  the  struggle  end  before  the  dawn? 
......  The  rushing  voice  of  all  calamity 

That  has  befallen  since  the  world  began 
Foretells  destruction  to  the  world  to-night: 
Tense  with  all  terror,  all  presentment  drawn 
Into  the  doom  of  earth  and  sky  and  sea, 
Here  I  have  waited  while  the  dark  hours  ran 
To  ages,  and  life  fought  the  long  last  fight. 

I  look  upon  the  blackness  of  the  lawn, 
Thick-strewn  with  wreckage  of  frail  hapless  trees, — 
Where  I  was  used  to  fable  that  great  Pan 
Met  with  the  Dryads  in  the  grey  moonlight, — 
And  wonder  what  will  show  there,  when  the  dawn 
Makes  clear  at  last  the  new-formed  boundaries 
Of  life  and  death,  well-knowing  that  no  man, 
No  living  creature,  can  endure  the  night. 

The  fatal  influence  of  sun  and  star, 

The  hostile  powers  that  fill  the  void  of  space, 

Fall  on  my  spirit,  and  I  find  no  cry 

So  piercing  as  to  reach  beyond  their  power: 

Across  dark  valleys,  sweeping  from  the  far 

Terrible  horizons,  without  name  or  place, 

They  come  resistless,  and  the  world  must  die, — 

All  the  world's  mortal  travail  in  an  hour ! 

130 


By  these  to  woful  end  was  Eden  brought : 
Through  a  long  age  of  unrecorded  days 
At  the  high  gates  the  tireless  watch  was  kept 
That  Adam  nor  his  sons  might  walk  within ; 
But  when  death  flashed  among  the  stars  and  caught 
The  Labourer  from  his  barren  fields,  the  blaze 
Of  flaming  swords  across  the  garden  swept, 
Consuming  all  the  beauty  that  had  been.  .  . 

By  these  at  last,  when  men,  grown  ill-content 
With  too  much  favour,  followed  evil  ways, 
Were  floods  piled  up  against  them,  and  their  line, 
Full  of  the  gust  of  life,  to  nothing  brought; 
By  these  was  ruin  into  Egypt  sent : 
Mothers  of  some  made  childless  in  those  days, 
And  gardens  fruitless  of  their  corn  and  wine.  .  . 
Reluctant  dawn  revealed  what  death  had  wrought. 

By  these  did  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  fall, — 
O,  citizens  of  the  plain,  did  any  stand 
By  swaying  windows,  staring  through  the  dark 
On  tortured  gardens,  perishing  below? 
Did  any  wonder  whether  dawn  would  call 
Peace  to  the  tumult  and  bring  back  the  land 
Her  beauty  ?    But  the  day  rose  on  the  stark, 
Unpeopled  plain,  too  desolate  for  woe! 


By  these  the  terror  unto  Jewry  came, 

When  the  graves  yawned   and   dead  men   walked 

about, 

And  in  the  sky  stood  out  the  crosses  three 
On  the  bleak  hill  beyond  Jerusalem : 
Burst  heaven  and  earth  to-gether  into  flame; 
King  Solomon's  temple  fell  before  the  rout; 
Tall  cedars  crashed  within  Gethsemane: 
The  Rose  of  Sharon  broke  upon  the  stem.  . 

By  these,  Pompeii,  arrogant,  was  turned 

To  ashes  and  long  lines  of  crumbling  stone; 

And  Lisbon,  laughing,  swallowed  in  the  sea, 

And  the  warm  island  cities,  with  their  bloom 

O,  while  a  thousand  palaces  were  burned, 

And   towers   and  temples  like  dead  flowers   were 

blown, 

What  palmy  gardens  shared  their  destiny  ?  . 
Pride  borne  with  beauty  to  a  common  tomb? 

From  all  the  city  late  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  music  and  of  laughter,  and  the  throng 
Of  men  and  women,  drunken  after  wine, 
Rushed  out  to  do  high  honour  to  their  lust; 
Until  the  stars  fell,  and  the  midnight  bound 
Their  feet  with  fear,  and  put  an  end  to  song, 
While  the  walls  rocked  above  them  for  a  sign,— 
And  all  my  flowers  were  mingled  with  the  dust ! 


132 


T  cry  farewell  to  roses,  those  that  sleep 
Yet  in  the  bud ;  and  so  I  cry  farewell 
To  many  an  unborn  generation  now 
Dead  ere  the  bud ;  and  so,  despairing,  cry 
Farewell  to  all  my  garden !    And  I  creep 
Here  to  the  window,  heavy  with  dread,  to  tell 
New  sorrow  over,  as  each  bud,  each  bough 
Breaks,  till,  at  last,  I  too  with  them  shall  die! 

Woe,  woe,  to  all  the  earth  on  such  a  night! 
The  rushing  voice  of  all  calamities 
That  have  befallen  man  since  he  was  man 
Cries  out  to  me  across  the  valley  of  woe.  .  . 
There  shall  not  come  a  dawn;  never  shall  light 
Shine  on  my  garden,  where  tall  hapless  trees 
Lie  dead, — where  I  was  used  to  talk  with  Pan 
Among  the  flowers,  now  dead, — all  dead,  below ! 


Mood  after  Music 

(For  Aubrey  Lee) 

Go  not,  O  dream  of  happiness, — not  now, 
O  dream  of  my  own  house,  of  my  own  folk ! 
Here,  though  I  am  forsworn  of  every  vow 
Youth  made  for  me,  Music  I  dare  invoke! 
For  dreams  to  pass,  the  World  is  all  too  wide, 
And  fancy  on  the  Deep  must  surely  fail : 
With  those  whose  doom  is  ever  to  abide 
In  far  lands,  Music  can  alone  avail. 
Late  in  this  far  counry  there  came  a  sound 
Of  slow  rivers,  and  the  stir  of  dark  trees 
Was  round  me  in  dim  starlight,  and  I  found 
My  soul  filled  with  unbroken  loyalties!— 
Go  not,  O  Music-born !     So  strangely  come ! 
Many  a  year  now  this  Music  will  be  dumb. 


134 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


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